


In the Hearts of Men

by NymeriaKing (DisappearingGirl)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkanis (Star Wars), Coming of Age, Culture Shock, Diplomacy, Jedi Trials, M/M, Mixed Heritage, Moral Dilemmas, Padawan Ben, Politics, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Racism, Slow Burn, War, Xenophobia, conlang, what a cutie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingGirl/pseuds/NymeriaKing
Summary: *Complete. Updates every Thursday!*Braid (topology)-threads that all originate on one plane and end on another, and are intertwined such that they cannot be untangled by deformation and can only be untangled by severance or intangibility.Consider the two planes, the beginning and end of the joined threads, to represent the beginning and end of our lives, our birth and our death. Our lives, the threads, are strung from one plane to the other in such a way that they loop, twist, and tangle with one another. They tug on one another, hold on to one another, and are terrifically and inherently bound to one another by the paths they take from the initial plane to the ultimate.No life, no thread, can be extracted from the other lives in its braid by any twisting, stretching, or torturing. They can only be extracted by being severed or made intangible, as in sudden death or ghosting.Ben, a young and passionate prodigy from the Core, is up for his Trials. Armitage, a cold and careful nobody from the Outer Rim, is up for anything. The New Republic and the fledgling First Order don't care for their plans one bit.





	1. fôrr - prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Labor of love, oh yeah. This one is shaping up to be about 22 chapters, and at least around 100k words. I'll be tagging extra things as I go.
> 
> Chapter One will be posted this evening when I get home. Updates after that will be on last Wednesday of every month. That means Chapter Two will be up in one week!
> 
> [Cover art](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/177277824044/in-the-hearts-of-men-coverprologue) by me. There will be an illustration for every chapter unless my arms fall off. (spoiler alert: I broke a finger after chapter 5, spent months rehabbing it, and then my thumb mcp joint gave out and I can no longer put pressure on a pen, lmao. So that's all the art.)

“Chancellor, please. Our forces aren’t needed anywhere else right now.”

“ _I’m sorry, Senator Organa, but there’s very little I can do without you articulating solid evidence of a real threat,_ ” Chancellor Jako’s voice buzzes from the holoterminal.

Leia isn't sure whether her developing headache is from the blue light she's been staring at for hours, or the steadily snide tone the Chancellor always carries.

“I _have_ admitted evidence to the Senate, sir,” she reminds him with a patient smile. “And I know you’ve seen it. Command is already on board with this.” 

“ _Some choice words spoken by some bitter old secessionists in the Outer Rim is hardly evidence of a military conquest,_ ” the Chancellor scoffs. His loose sleeves shimmer in the holo as he waves his hand in dismissal. “ _Are we going to mobilize forces in response to every being that speaks against this cabinet? Our pockets would be empty! And for what?”_

“Well, we’re not going to wait for them to take a few planets first, are we? The Outer Rim is every bit at risk as the rest of this galaxy. We can't ignore them.”

Chancellor Jako sighs. Leia shakes her head and pushes on before he can attempt another dismissal.

“With all due respect, sir, I can't stand for this inaction. We all see what's going on. We _cannot_ let them make the first move.”

“ _We have already fortified the smaller territories that can’t provide for themselves. Plus the extra squadron_ each _for Javin, Arkanis, Kessel and Belsmuth you were granted just last quarter._ ” The Chancellor frowns, and Leia mirrors it with crossed arms.

“That's not enough, and you know it.”

“ _No more._ ” His tone brokers no argument.

“They need more troops if they’re to protect—”

“ _Any more than that is overstepping my bounds; only the Senate can give approval for further militarization. You know this._ ”

The Senator stares him directly in the eye, or as close as she can through a holocall. “I also know that the Senate will never vote in favor of just four Outer Rim planets. We have to be reasonable, here, Chancellor.”

“ _The Senate is reasonable. End of discussion._ ”

“Sir—”

“ _Enjoy your evening, Senator._ ”

Leia smacks her desk when the holocall terminates. “ _Kriff_.” A new excuse every time. She can't win.

She draws in a deep breath and holds it in as long as she can, rubbing her temples. _There is no use in being angry if you don't do anything about it._ Her father’s words remind her of what's important. A man of action, he had great political sense. She would be nowhere without that.

Releasing her breath, Leia switches channels, punches in a new address, and waits. After a minute, Gial Ackbar’s visage is displayed.

“ _Ah, Senator Organa. You've finally spoken to the Chancellor, I take it?_ ”

The Senator grimaces and leans back in her seat, fists clenching and unclenching. “Hardly.”

The Admiral chuckles and tuts. Leia continues.

“Jako is a leader, I'll give him that much.” She rolls her eyes. “But the man has no spine. _Months_ of investigations and lobbying and hearings, and when I finally get my direct audience for the quarter, he dismisses everything like it's some secondhand rumor.” Her gaze bores through the display, searching.

“ _He is only a man, Leia. A leader, perhaps, but we know this attribute to only reflect the surroundings, and not mean anything in and of itself._ ” He pauses, looking at something off-holo for a moment before turning back to address Leia. “ _We cannot sway his nature, and so must simply ignore it. His term will end soon enough, and we will try for better leadership then. For now, let us go ahead with our plans._ ”

Leia drops her gaze and nods softly in agreement, considering. She's been hesitant to go behind the backs of the Senate and High Command. If not for Admiral Ackbar, she might not have organized anything outside of Command at all. But he is right; some things must simply be done, authority be damned.

“I'll talk to Luke tonight.” She looks back up at the Admiral with renewed fire. “Are your squadrons still on schedule to transfer next week?”

He nods.

“Perfect. I can think of a few people I'd like to add to your convoy, if you'll have them. We can discuss the others once your men are planetside.”

“ _If you find them trustworthy, we will have anyone. Take care, Senator. May the Force be with you._ ”

“May the Force be with you, Admiral.”

The terminal beeps once and goes dark. Pulling the pin from her hair, Leia heaves a sigh. _Time to really get to work_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one will be posted this evening when I get home.
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com)


	2. îdh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter One art](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/177282199964/in-the-hearts-of-men-chapter-one) by me

Crooning whistles mark the springtime arrival of the temiajays from the South. They stay mostly hidden in the highest treetops for the weeks they are here, only coming to the ground to bathe, but their calls are piercing.

Ben watches as two of the birds dance around the rim of a birdbath. Their long, ax-shaped tails flick left and right over their heads. They are both males, and neither will wet its feathers while the other is present.

The whistles quickly devolve into shrieks, and the dancing becomes frantic. _To fight is the last resort,_ as the Masters say. _There are no winners in war._

The scuffle reminds Ben of his dream; a river raging, fields aflame, a vast nothingness. _There are no winners in war._

It first came to him the night after he was confirmed for his trials. It crept in slowly, like an old friend, then burned him and drowned him and smothered him in the darkness. It has only increased in intensity and frequency in recent weeks.

He knows this dream to be the Force communing with him, but he unsure of its message. It may be about his upcoming trials — what they’ll mean for his Commencement, his future; what he’ll gain, what he’ll lose.

Or perhaps it is about his past, and how it has shaped him. He has accepted that being torn between his mother’s life and his father’s has shaped who is, but there may be something to read further into.

Maybe it’s not about him at all. Ben has considered that some Force visions are not meant to be acted directly upon, and are merely a lesson to be learned. _Experience is a gift,_ of course. That happens, sometimes. He might take it to Master Jade, but it is his own dream, not hers, and she has much else to attend to that supersedes childish nightmares.

The jays have begun lunging at one another now, pulling Ben’s gaze back to the present. There are a few close calls between the pair, but then the water in the birdbath jumps up at them, and they both dart away.

He furrows his eyebrows.

“That was immoral and disruptive,” he chastises in his most patronizing voice. “You will never become a Jedi Master if you cannot control your childish urges and respect the happenings of nature around you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, _Master Skywalker,_ ” a laugh rings out from behind him.

Ben turns his back on the birdbath, smirking up from his seat on the grass. Silvery hair catches the midday Chandrilan sunlight, and Ben has to squint against it just to see the narrowed eyes inspecting him.

“Of all the people I would have thought to find so deep in meditation in the grove on a sunny afternoon, you were not one of them, Ben Solo.” The interloper folds her arms across her chest. “Have you been drinking your uncle’s special water again?”

“No special water,” Ben huffs with a shake of his head. His gaze drops back to the grass in front of him, his smile wanes.

Pascaline is a couple years younger than Ben, but her wit and instinct has given him a run for his money in their years together at the Academy. Quickly proving herself to be adept with the Force, even with no training, she was assigned to Luke almost as soon as she had arrived. Ben was jealous of her kinship with his uncle at first, but they’ve grown closer as friends as their talents have set them apart from the other Padawans.

She’s up for her trials at the same time as he is, sometime this year, which Ben is thankful for. He doesn’t particularly care for the added pressure of going through it alone.

“I was thinking about the trials,” he offers by way of explanation. “Has Master Skywalker told you anything new about them?”

The Council had met with them a few weeks ago to discuss their Commencement, and how the cold war — and its not-so-cold possibilities — might affect it. Some vague extraplanetary mission was mentioned, but they haven’t heard anything specific in the time since. Master Jade’s only advice on his trials was to meditate more.

“That’s exactly what I came to collect you for, actually. Luke’s asked us to his cottage.” She gives him a victorious smile. “No comms or datapads, of course.”

Ben stands and lifts his empty hands. “I've got nothing.”

“Great, let's go. I'd like to get there while the tea’s still hot.”

\------

It takes them a few minutes to get out of the grove and past the school. From atop the hill where he stands, Ben can see the familiar white smoke whispering from his uncle’s chimney. Sage — he can almost smell it from here. Pascaline, who had been trailing not far behind, marches right past him, leading Ben directly across the empty training grounds and into the small valley that his uncle calls home.

After the long walk, Ben can barely keep from pushing the wooden door wide open. He squeezes his fist a couple times, failing to rid himself of the slight tremble that’s overcome him in his excitement, then knocks twice.

There’s movement from inside the stone walls. A few seconds of muddled voices, and the door opens to reveal a blaze of red.

“Master Mara Jade,” Ben greets, head bowed. Pascaline dips her head as well.

“Ben Solo, Pascaline Umara,” the Jedi Master salutes the two in turn. She pulls the door open further to reveal the soft browns and greens of the interior. “Come in. We have much to discuss.”

She turns and leads the pair directly into the tiny living room that serves as a buffer for the rest of the cottage, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Ben takes in the quiet light of it all. It’s exactly as he remembers from the last time he stayed here with his uncle. The windows are all uncovered, the furniture is worn and soft. The low table in the center even still has the gilded thranta sculpture his mother bought to spice up the place.

He crosses the room and drops into his usual seat on the mossy green armchair under the window. It doesn’t feel quite as giant as he remembers. He’s grown a lot, he supposes, and his perspective has changed. But in all the years that Ben has spent at the Jedi Academy, living well out in the country outside Hanna City, his uncle’s cottage has never changed. He feels as if he’s stepping back into his youngling days, when Luke would make him tea every night after school, even though he never asked for it.

But deeper matters than bullying and bad dreams would be handled over hot tea today, he mulls.

In the kitchen, he can hear soft conversation, broken up by the careful clinks of his uncle’s teacups being pulled from their cupboard. The heady scent of honey pours out into the living room when the door opens, followed by the softer herbal tones of the tea.

Luke trails Mara out into the living room. He sets the tray on the low table, and they each take a seat on the couch across from Pascaline.

Luke is the first to speak, snatching a cup off the tray to nurse.

“I want to preface this meeting by making it perfectly clear that the Senate has not endorsed the entirety of the mission we’re discussing today.” His pale eyes bore into Pascaline’s, then into Ben's. “You two have both been confirmed to begin your trials, and with that, we trust that you possess the tact necessary to preserve the secrecy and sanctity of this mission.

“As you know, the New Republic is under threat. The secessionist nations have gathered a large military, and we expect they will start annexing Outer Rim territories by force very soon.

“Despite your mother's best efforts,” Luke nods to Ben, “The Senate has chosen not to act. That is why she is sending us to the Outer Rim under another objective. Master Jade, if you'd please.”

 _The boonies?_ Ben curses inwardly. He had been under the impression that he might be spending the coming months somewhere more… exciting.

Ben’s mentor nods swiftly at Luke, her warm eyes alight. Having served both sides of the Galactic civil war, covers are her specialty. 

“Two key Republic military installations in the Outer Rim are experiencing conflict with the host population: Arkanis Base, on the planet Arkanis, and Botajef Base, on the planet Botajef in the Belsmuth sector.”

 _The boonies of the boonies._ Ben slumps a little further into his chair. Belsmuth at least gets some traffic, but _Arkanis_? That whole Run is practically still wild.

He slides a glance to Pascaline, but she’s listening just as closely as ever, cool blue eyes pinned to the woman speaking. She's been ready for any kind of mission since even before the confirmation from the Council.

The cold feeling of inactivity begins to settle over him, and he picks up his warm cup of tea to chase the gooseflesh away.

“Incidentally, these are also two of the four bases that High Command has re-evaluated as being high-risk targets for attack,” Mara continues. “High Command knows why we’ll really be there, but the Senate and personnel on base will not, so it is imperative that we maintain the integrity of our cover. Do not treat it as a lie, for it is not a lie.

“Syndulla, Bridger and Nakcohh will be going to Botajef to resolve the Jefi struggle. The four of us will be going to Arkanis to resolve their struggle.”

Just his luck. Ben sticks out a lip.

“Should war break out, we will be ready for it. However, the safety and security of our military is a priority, and the native populations are the more immediate threat at this time.”

Pascaline interrupts with a raised hand.

“If I may ask…”

“Go ahead.”

“What will happen if we achieve our cover objective before war breaks out?”

Luke hums and nods, placing his empty cup back down. Ben looks over to get a read on him.

He sees _nothing_. A heaviness drops into Ben’s gut like a stone; the vision is trying to drag him under again. His grip on the teacup tightens as his visible surroundings fade. He knows Luke is speaking, but he can only hear the clash of a river and the crackle of flames.

 _It’s just a dream,_ he thinks. He still has the tiny cup in his hands, and the soft corduroy chair beneath him. He rubs the clay ridges underneath his fingertips, trying to shut out the scorching heat and angry splashes of water that are _just a dream_.

He puts all his energy into just being _here_ , in Luke’s cottage. Measuring out his breaths, taking another sip of tea, staring resolutely forward at where he knows the thranta statue should be, he lets the Force take its vision back. Slowly, slowly, it creeps away.

“...but remember that war is not our goal. We are prepared for it, prepared to _end_ it, but there are no winners in war. We must do everything within our power to maintain a peaceful balance.”

Mara and Pascaline are still focused on Luke’s even timbre. No one seems to have noticed Ben’s brief distraction. Good.

He’s still got the empty teacup in a vice. He sets it back on the low table so it doesn’t betray the trembling of his hands, and sits back. 

_This can't be about the mission,_ he thinks, _or is it? Did the Force choose to interrupt this moment for a reason? Will the war interrupt the mission? Am I overthinking this?_

“Ben?”

Ben looks up from his musing. Everyone is staring at him openly.

“Do you have any questions?” Luke probes gently, eyebrows raised. “Any concerns?”

Ben tries to think of something he'd missed, but the dream still clouds his thoughts and he comes up empty. He shakes head.

Luke nods first at him, then Pascaline.

“Okay, then. Well, we leave in one week. Be sure to stop by the health center and get cleared for travel. Bring everything you need for permanent residency; we'll be there for a while. And Ben,” Luke points at him. “Call your mother. She wants to see you before we leave.”

With that, Luke stands and picks up the tray, dismissing them.

“Oh, and raincoats,” he calls on his way back into the kitchen as they all rise from their seats. “Arkanis Base is on the coast, and they get lots of rain! Enjoy this Chandrilan weather while you can!”

As the three guests file out of Luke's cottage, Ben feels a light touch on his elbow. He looks over his shoulder at his mentor.

“Let's take a walk,” she tells him. Master Jade never makes mere suggestions.

He mutters a quick _see you later_ at Pascaline, watching her take off back towards the school and dormitories as he falls into step with Mara. Maybe she did notice Ben's distraction, the intrusion.

The pair turns down the worn footpath that leads to the other cottages. Ben is grateful for the warmth of the sun to be back on his shoulders, but the light breeze from earlier has picked up a little, and he has to push his hair out of his eyes every few seconds.

“You really need to decide on a proper length, Ben,” Mara smirks. Her own hair is tied back. “Either keep it short or keep it long. Imagine how embarrassing it would be for a Jedi to die in battle, not because his opponent was any more skilled than he, but because his opponent was better groomed.”

Ben huffs. His mom doesn't like it either, says a Senator can't be seen with a “tatterdemalion son,” as if he'd want to be seen with someone who makes up words like _tatterdemalion_ , anyway. He knows the length isn't customary. Luke had mentioned it once, and Pascaline scrunched her nose at it every time she saw him. But it doesn't bother him; he doesn't let it.

“You've seen for yourself that I'm strong enough in the Force to fight blindfolded, do you really think my hair is going to cause any problems?” Ben shakes his head and looks up at the sky. It's bright blue, dotted with birds, and he probably won't be seeing another blue sky in months. “It’s not like I'm going to see action anytime soon, anyway.”

“I don't worry one bit about your adeptness with the Force, only your diminished sense of practicality that stems from it.”

Ben's heard this one a thousand times. He takes a deep breath in, but Mara cuts him off before he can wax verbose about his perfectly well-developed non-Force skills.

“I've noticed you don't seem very eager for our upcoming mission.” She catches Ben's gaze briefly before he looks down to the rocky dirt. “Do you think Arkanis will be boring?”

Ben scoffs, derision clear.

“It will be,” she affirms. “Politics is slow; it's mostly talking and drinking and waiting. It's almost insulting to be reduced down to such petty nonsense, don't you agree?”

It's such a relief to hear the real Mara finally come out.

“It is!” Ben gushes. “We could do so much more than the Senate will let us. We could be fighting all that crime that they aren't, taking out the traffickers and the murderers, but instead we're being wasted on mediating petty feuds in the Outer Rim.” He kicks a rock off the path to punctuate his frustration, but it's too small and it doesn't give him any satisfaction.

“How can we do any actual good if we have to listen to the Senate all the time?” he demands. He doesn't even want to ask about the state of his trials, knowing now that they probably won't include anything meaningful.

“I feel the exact same way,” Mara concurs. “I've always wanted to do more.”

“Then why don't you do something about it? You're part of the Council! If you would just go to the Senate and make them see—”

“Because it’s not all about the Senate, Ben. And it's not all about fighting and being a hero. I feel your enthusiasm for being active in helping people, but sometimes our help must come in slower paces.”

“Like this mission to Arkanis? Any normal person can do that! I need a challenge! My trials are coming up, and now the Council suddenly decides to take away my strengths and send me off to the Outer Rim?”

“Normal people have tried. Why do you think Jedi are being sent to the Arkanis consulate?” 

“Because the Senate wants to keep us at arm’s-length.”

“Interesting thought,” she concedes, and brings them to a stop in front of her cottage door. “But not quite the answer I'm looking for. The Senate trusts us — and only us — to bring a planet to peace by negotiating with a largely isolated population that,” she begins counting on her fingers, “hates us, does not speak a common language, and would like to be left alone entirely, and of course, somehow also manage to maintain secure occupation of their land so as to not compromise our military in these trying times. Do you think this will be an easy task?”

“It sounds impossible.”

“And you want to attain knighthood this year, correct?”

“Well, yes…”

“Then would it not follow that completing this impossible task would perhaps help raise you into knighthood, or even mastery?”

Ben frowns.

“Still think it's below your paygrade?” she nudges.

“Whether it's easy or not, it's still not doing much in the bigger picture.”

“I don't know about that. I get the feeling there's more to this than meets the eye. Your time will come.”

He squares his shoulders and fixes her a look. “Do you know something I don't?"

“Of course I do. I'm part of the Jedi Council.” She smirks and ducks into her cottage before Ben can ask any more questions.

\------

Somewhere in between calling his mom and running the younglings through Form III drills, Ben remembers to make an appointment for the next day at the health center to clear him for travel.

He's never liked this place. He has to change out of his robes and into an awfully thin gown. The poking, prodding, and scanning is always a little more invasive than he’d like, and he's grateful when things start to wrap up.

“Just one more.” The nurse presses the injector into Ben’s thigh again, pulling the trigger to empty the last four vials of boosters. When it's done, she discharges the syringes into a hazmat bin and slides the injector back into her tool trolley. She looks back up at him and smiles. “That's it for those. You'll need to swing by for the second round in 72 hours, but after that, you'll be cleared for travel to the Arkanis sector.”

Ben nods, loosening his grip on his examination table. He's stayed up-to-date on the required vaxxes for the Core, but there's an extra two-round schedule required for every world past Christophsis on the Corellian Run.

“It looks like the system just finished your prescription based on your physical. Let me pull it up and transfer you the key.” The nurse sits down at the holoterminal in the corner, fingers flying over the keys. “Adult male human, estimated six months on-world on Arkanis,” she reads. “Vitamin D, one-hundred micrograms daily. Calcium, four-hundred milligrams daily. Magnesium, one-hundred milligrams daily. Iron, twenty milligrams weekly. Vitamin A, one-thousand micrograms daily. Vitamins B6 two milligrams daily. Vitamin B9, four-hundred micrograms daily. Vitamin B12 two micrograms as needed, in morning only, and no more than once daily.”

 _Hells_.

She swivels her chair to face him, hand out. “Datapad or comm, please.”

He reaches to the edge of the table and fishes through his bag for a second before pulling out his comm. When he hands it over, she places the back of it against her datapad. After a second, it beeps to confirm the transfer. She hands it back.

“The prescription has already been sent to the dispensary on Arkanis base. You can have it filled one month at a time. Put the medigown in that bin over there,” she points to the corner behind the door, “and you're free to go.”

“Thanks,” Ben mutters. Once the nurse is out of the room, he swaps out the ugly white gown for his usual clothes: brown trousers, brown boots, _light_ brown undershirt, tan tunic, brown robe. _Nobody can ever say the Jedi clash colors_. Though he must admit they're rather comfortable. He stuffs his comm back into his bag, slings it over one shoulder, and heads out. The medigown hits the laundry bin with a soft _thunk_.

Outside the health center, his mother’s chauffeur is waiting for him. The cruiser has no lack of gleam or grace, but is otherwise inconspicuous. The rear door opens for him on his approach, and he hops in.

“Good evening, Mister Solo,” Sully greets from the pilot’s seat, partition down. “The Senator tells me you'll be leaving on a mission soon. The Outer Rim, correct?”

“Good evening,” Ben drawls, settling into his seat, “and yes, to Arkanis.”

The cruiser pulls away, picking up speed once the buildings have been cleared. The health center soon grows small in the window.

“Ah, Arkanis. That's where your uncle is from, isn't it?”

“Same sector, yeah.”

Sully nods. “There's a military base there, for the Republic Command. The Senator says they're beefing up their numbers there. You know, to keep those secessionists out. Says they're militarizing.”

“Yeah, I've heard. But the Jedi are just there on diplomacy. To deal with the locals.” Ben swallows. “We won't have anything to do with the military operations.”

“Oh, well, I suppose that's good. War is dangerous, no place for someone of your standing. Glad to hear you're following in your mother's footsteps, sir.”

Ben hums and sinks deeper into his seat. He watches the slowly passing cruisers in the oncoming lane. Traffic on Chandrila has always been just shy of unbearable. Everyone and their mother has private transport — some families really do even have multiple cruisers and speeders.

“She does good things in that Senate. Always has. We could use more people like her. Too many crooks and scoundrels nosing around and looking for power.”

“You don’t say,” he mumbles.

“I do say!” the driver continues enthusiastically. “And the Senator, you know she told me the other day that some of those worlds in the Outer Rim don't even have a seat in the Senate? And some of the ones that do, well, those Senators aren't _voted_ in. Half of ‘em don't even talk to the people they represent!”

“They have gangs out there, yeah.”

“Arkanis is one of those, you know.” Sully catches his eyes in the mirror. “Say, is that why the Senate is sending you out that way? Will you be doing something about the gangs?”

“Oh, um,” Ben has no idea. He hadn't considered it, but he's not one to leave an impression of ignorance. “Well, we have to survey the situation first before we can do anything. It's very delicate, of course.” He stares back out at the traffic. They're close to his mother’s apartment, now. 

“Of course, of course.”

Something about what Sully said nags at Ben.

“Did my mother say anything else about Arkanis, Mister Sully? When she was talking about the gangs?”

“Oh, I don't think so, Mister Solo. Not that I can remember.”

“Okay, thank you.” Ben rests back against his seat. He hadn't realized he had leant so far forward in his eagerness.

The cruiser pulls up to a high entrance of the tower his mother spends so much time in. Ban gathers his bag.

“Oh, you know what?” Sully almost shouts. “She did mention Arkanis a couple weeks ago, when she was talking with one of her men about moving troops out there. Something to do with the gangs in that sector causing trouble.” He shakes his head. “But I didn't hear the whole conversation. I'm afraid I don't know anything more. But since you're here, I suppose you can ask her about it.”

The cruiser door opens to reveal the waiting doorman. Ben turns to Sully again.

“Thank you. I suppose it'll be a while before I see you again. Take care, Mister Sully,” he bids before stepping out.

Sully waves once and pulls the cruiser away. Ben watches him until he disappears in the endless traffic.

He hoists his bag up onto his shoulder and turns to the door.

“Welcome, Mister Solo,” the doorman greets, entering a code and opening the door. “Will anyone be joining you?”

Ben shakes his head and strides in.

“Very well, then,” the doorman calls after him. “Enjoy your day!”

At the last door at the end of the hallway, Ben stops and takes a breath. His mother doesn't often call him here. She's been so busy with the Senate, lately, she says. She's been so busy for years. Ben hasn't seen her in person since his birthday dinner last summer, when her comm wouldn't stop beeping and she had to leave early.

 _If I see that thing one more time.._ , he swears. He presses his thumb to the keypad. It blinks once, and the door opens.

Inside, the apartment is spotless, pristine white everything. The walls, the sofas, the countertops. Even the sculptures that adorn the cute little tables are colorless. She tried to keep everything this way when he was little and Han was still around. Useless, of course.

“Mom?” he calls. Something clangs in the kitchen. He tries there.

Sure enough, the Senator herself is fussing over something on the stove, cursing under her breath.

“Hey, Mom.”

She startles and nearly knocks the pot onto the floor, before whipping her gaze over to her son.

“You know, there is this little button on the keypad outside,” she explains with a narrowed gaze. “It's right above all the other keys, and when you press it, it lets the people on the inside know that there's someone on the outside who wants to come in.”

Ben raises a brow. “You're the one who told me, and I quote, ‘Just walk right in, Benny!’” He lifts his arms for show. “Here I am.”

Leia purses her lips at him, then smiles warmly. “Give your old lady a hug.”

He huffs a laugh and leans in, wrapping his arms around her. She smells of that same perfume she's always worn for as long as he can remember, like red tea and star-bells.

“When did you get so tall?” she mumbles into his chest. “I could have sworn I was the tall one!” She sighs heavily and pulls back, but doesn't release him from her grip. She opens her mouth to speak again, but Ben beats her to it.

“I used to fit in the cupboards, I know.”

She smiles again, somberly this time, and gestures out to the living room. “Why don’t you have a seat? I'll bring the food out there and we can eat on the couch. I want to talk about some things.”

“What's on the menu?” He stretches his neck to try and see in the pot. It smells like saffron, but he can't see anything. “The Usual?”

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles. “Go sit down.” 

He can't complain; his grandmother’s star-rice recipe will be sorely missed when he's out in the boonies. Being the only foolproof recipe his mother knows, however, has given it a reputation.

Soon enough, Leia brings out the two steaming bowls and sets them on the table, taking her seat on the opposite couch. Ben grabs his immediately, but it's too hot to eat, so he blows on it while his mother starts talking.

“Can you do something for me?”

Ben nods for her to go on.

“You'll have to look me in the eye when I speak to you.”

He looks up. Her eyes have gone cold, frown lines deeper than he’s ever seen on her. Her hair is starting to grey. He's not sure if it’s been that long since he's seen her, or he just hasn't noticed before.

“Ben. Can you go check on the food, please?”

He pauses, but then nods and sets his bowl back down gently. He picks his bag up off the floor, pulling out his comm and turning it off before putting it all back. He grabs his bowl again, and his mother grabs hers.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “I don't think we can trust the Chancellor or the Senate anymore. So all communiques, from now on, _must_ be dark. Do you understand?”

He swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

Silence hangs in the air while Leia weighs her words. Ben studies her aging looks a little more. She really has been working a lot, he supposes. It’s taking its toll on her.

“You know, of course, about the situation with the First Order?”

“Is that what the Secessionists are calling themselves?” He takes a bite of his food.

“Yes. The Chancellor won't call them that. He seems to think that the problem will go away if we ignore it. Or so I thought.”

“There’s a deeper problem, isn't there?”

“You've always been perceptive.” She grins, but it’s a hard one.

“You taught me,” he shrugs. “The gangs in the Arkanis sector. They hold the Senate seats?”

“Every last one.”

“And Belsmuth?”

“Bought.”

“Kriff.”

“Yep.” She stares into her bowl, but she hasn't touched her food, yet. “We’ve been trying to up our presence, but those gangs have their claws in deep. That's why I need you guys there. Admiral Ackbar has managed some influence over who Command has sent out. I'm sure Luke has informed you that they are not to be trusted?”

Ben nods.

“They're shiny, those new guys. We’ve handpicked as many as we can get away with, but they're all still loyal to the Republic.”

He furrows his brow. “You don’t mean to—"

“I do. This is our only option, since the Republic won't act.”

“You say ‘the Republic’ like you aren't a part of it.”

He has never seen his mother’s eyes so cold.

“We aren't. Not anymore, not in any meaningful sense.”

 _We_.

Ben doesn't speak, just looks into his mother’s eyes. She doesn't waver. She's serious.

“By going to Arkanis and carrying out your mission, you will be actively disobeying the Galactic Senate. Are you okay with this?”

Well. Ben _thought_ he was okay with this. He knew in Luke's cottage that what they were doing was not explicitly allowed. But he had never really considered something like this to be _treason_. He always thought that a Jedi mission would be heroic and celebrated, not boring, secretive and treasonous. _But_ , he supposes, _what Luke and Yoda and Ben Kenobi all did was boring, secretive, and_ very _treasonous_. And Master Mara did say that his time would come.

“Do we have a name?”

“What?”

“Do we have a name?” he repeats insistently. “Like _the Rebellion, Part Two_?”

Leia rolls her eyes. “I'm sorry, I hadn't considered our need for a catchy name. I'm being serious, Ben. Can you handle this?”

“When you decide on one, let me know,” Ben shrugs. “And yes, I can handle this. I'm on board, thick and thin.”

She presses her lips together, and they turn nearly white to match everything else in the room. “As I was saying, we have one person of interest being sent to Arkanis base that we want you to keep a special eye on. You've met him once before, but you probably don't remember him. His parents were Shara and Kes Dameron, the Rebel fighters. His name is Poe Dameron, he’s a pilot — a very good one — and he’s not much older than you.

“Sources tell me he’s getting restless. He knows how much his parents did during the war, and he wants to do the same to protect the New Republic. We figure that if he sees how little Republic Command is able to do on the front lines, he’ll be sure to join us.”

“And you just want me to watch him, for what?”

“See how he feels, what he does about it. Don't intervene, just report back to me. I don't ever want to hear him mention your name, got it?”

“Sure thing. Watch him and stay out of it. Do the Jedi thing. Easy.”

His mother levels him with a firm look.

“I said I'll do it!”

“Thank you. Now, we need to talk about communication. Before you leave, I'll give you a datachip with a rolling key. Do not ever use that key for anything other than this business, and do not ever conduct this sort of business without it. Don't ever use it in public, don't ever let anyone find it. You need to keep it safe so that I can speak with you securely while you're on Arkanis.”

“Understood.”

“Everything that I've told you today is between you and me, and no one else. Not even Luke.”

“Okay.”

She gives him a considering lookover. “Do you understand that this war is not a matter of if, but when?”

“It doesn't seem that way, but yes.”

“It is. And I want you to carefully consider everything you do over the coming months, as every decision you make will have an impact on everyone, not only around you, but in the galaxy.”

“It doesn't feel that way,” he confesses.

“It doesn't, does it?” she muses. “At least not yet. I suppose it won't feel that way until the impacts have already hit. It always feels like it's all about you until the universe shows you it isn't.” She pulls out of her reflection to look at her son again.

“Finish that before it gets cold,” she chides with a finger aimed at his bowl. “I cooked it so you could eat it, not stare at it.”

The pair digs in.

\------

“You ready to go, Ben?”

“Almost!”

Ben’s bags are by the dormitory door. He doesn't have much to take with him — the Jedi academy certainly doesn't encourage a material lifestyle —, it all fits into two cases.

He’s made all his preparations. His shots are done, his borrowed equipment is back in the Academy's armory, he even made time to farewell his flock of younglings. The mission party will be leaving for the upper spaceport soon. From there, they'll rendevouz with some Command fleet and hitch their rides to Botajef and Arkanis.

 _Arkanis, gloom and doom_.

If he's quite honest with himself, he is going to miss this place in a weird way. Not just the Academy, but Hanna City, too. Hell, he's going to miss the Core. He’s collected plenty of bad memories, from his father and mother, from other Padawans. He even had a sharp row with the sea, once. But it wasn't all bad. Most days here were actually pretty good.

 _A matter of perspective_ , he supposes. He’s spent most of his life in this room, but standing at the door, looking at how empty it is, he doesn't recognize it.

It looks bigger, with all his personal effects gone. But it also looks smaller than it did when he first arrived. The walls are so bare, bland. The thought of never needing return here makes his stomach churn. From somewhere, he can smell smoke.

“Ben!” Mara calls from outside.

“I'm coming!” All Ben can smell now is the fresh spring air wafting in from outside. He lifts a hand to his neck, feeling for the chain his mother gave him. It's there, under his shirt. He grabs his cases and walks them out to the waiting shuttle.

He doesn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two will be posted next Wednesday.
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com)


	3. sô

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [super boring illustration](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/177530673279/in-the-hearts-of-men-chapter-two) for this chapter

The storm that has been pattering out a steady beat on the workshop roof for hours is starting to wane. This afternoon has been a quiet one; the soft clink of a dropped screw and the rolling glide of a chair are the only sounds to be heard against the rain. There have been no visitors so far today.

Armitage works silently. The armature in his hand is small and bare, stripped of its aluminum coil. The badly corroded wire sits in flaky chips and pieces on the desk. Armitage slides his chair over to reach a spool of thin copper wire. Measuring it out carefully, he trims it and begins rewrapping the armature.

Handling the delicate pieces requires great precision and makes his hands ache -- especially after already having spent hours under the harsh white light, bent over his work -- but Armitage nonetheless finds the practice to be relaxing. Activity on base has picked up sharply in recent weeks -- he's never seen the spaceport so busy, he's got more work orders than ever, and his most recent request for copper materials even got instant approval. The general atmosphere has been rather frenetic, a much quicker pace and higher energy than at home, and the detailed work while he’s here is a welcome distraction.

When the wire runs out, it's coiled neatly, three layers bound tightly over one another along the entire stretch. He replaces the commutator, gently places the armature into the test seat, and connects the adjacent wires before clicking the temporary housing shut. He snags a spare power cell from a nearby tray to complete the circuit, and with a solid _thwack_ on the box, the armature inside turns over and begins spinning rapidly.

He checks the meter readout. _Perfect._

He quickly breaks the alternator’s circuit and waits for the spinning to stop before taking the armature back out. Now he just needs to reassemble the original alternator and install it back into the landspeeder it arrived in — the sixth this day —, and then he'll have finished all the day’s work.

Once that's done, and after he's tested the speeder to make sure all the gizmos work properly — they do — he turns the lights down and gathers his things. He peers out the elevated windows. The rain has stopped, but packing up his cloak is a risk he won’t take. He swings it over his shoulders and steps out of the workshop. The durasteel door locks itself behind him.

On the far southern side of the base, near to the gate that leads Armitage home, sits a row of old buildings left over from the days of the Empire. As miraculously untouched as they may have been by the New Republic’s heavy assault so many years ago, Arkanis’s rains have not been so kind to them.

They are visibly more weathered than the rest of the base, made of different material and built before the masons had known how cruel this planet would be. The outer walls are stained, and the corners are no longer sharp, rust and moss and rain all taking what they can. The newer buildings play host to the important dealings of the base. These old buildings were left for the afterthoughts; storage, the consulate, a few office spaces reserved for the lower ranks.

It's as Armitage is passing through the old district that he hears a door whoosh open behind him and a familiar voice call out.

“Armitage!”

He stops and turns. Vara, one of the secretaries, is leaning out the door to the consulate, panting a little. She must have just run from her office suite upstairs.

“I saw you going by, and figured I might as well ask you. Do you think you could help schedule a meeting with the _éden_ for sometime next week?”

He recoils. He'd have to take a whole day off from the shop to make that trip. The _éden_ lives up in the highlands, far from the base.

“ _Next week?_ I don’t—” he sputters.

“I realize that's really short notice, but since Kasit’s gone and his post is being filled tomorrow, and then with the _Kjára_ coming up so soon,” she throws her arms down in exasperation, “this meeting really needs to happen as soon as possible.”

The revelation leaves him reeling. “Wait, what? Kasit’s gone? Replaced, just like that?”

Mbaak Kasit, New Republic Ambassador to Arkanis, had — until very recently, apparently — headed the dealings between Arkanis Base and the indigenous peoples that surrounded it, working with their _éden_ to keep some semblance of peace. But now that Armitage thinks about it, he realizes he hasn't seen the old man since the last _Kjára_ , almost a month ago. He's been too busy with work to visit the consulate.

“Yeah, he left for good about a week ago,” she says matter-of-factly. “He's been coming and going for a while. They've got him working in some other sector now, since things haven't really improved much here.”

Improved. He narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. While of course things haven't _improved_ for his people, either, he knows that Vara is talking about the Republic’s interests. 

“Do you know who's going to replace him? Will it be someone who's already here?”

She shrugs. “They're bringing in some specialists or whatever from the galactic capital, actually. But I've never met them. They're supposed to be miracle-workers, though — in a good way.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” he hums. “In any case, I'll talk to our _éden_ and try to arrange a meeting. I trust you'll be there?”

Vara shakes her head. “I've got to run back to the capital in a couple days for some business, but I'll be back before the next _Kjára_.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Armitage nods a farewell to her and continues down the road to the gate.

He hadn't been particularly close to Kasit, but the man wasn't _bad_ at his job — he just didn’t do much. They had seen terrible emissaries, to be sure; he hopes the new ones won't be so inept, or worse.

The rest of the walk home is peaceful. Now outside the base, he can hear the rush and crash of the ocean to the east. The air is lighter out here, and his vision is no longer assaulted with grays on top of grays. The forest and the low plains are healthy and dark, and the hills are starting to blush violet again, now that winter has left and the flowers are growing. He has the freedom to let his hair down here, out of the tight uniform the command imposes.

To be honest, Armitage can’t help but enjoy his walks to the base much more than his walks home some days, but today is not one of those days. He's glad to be out of the busy and cluttered city; this country out here has a quieter, and yet more vivid liveliness that always steals his breath away. He feels as if he's one with it when he's out here, and something far different and more removed when he's not.

After crossing the large stone bridge that watches over what little is left of the _Séta_ river, Armitage follows the road into the dim wood of the pines. The path is worn well and wide with wheel rivets dug into the stone on either side from countless generations’ use. The trees do not creep onto it, but high up into the sky above, taking much of the light for themselves. 

Most of the road between his house and the base lies here under the cover of the tall trees, where the rain often does not reach. It is still and quiet. In the days of his grandmother, she says all sorts of creatures could be heard in this easternmost wood where the land meets the sea. But since the new men, the _fostáme_ , came down and took the river, the animals do not like to be here. Even the brave capras turn back when they find themselves straying too close to the stone walls of the base.

The forest eventually begins to part, and Armitage follows the footpath the rest of the way home. Judging from the smoke pouring out of the chimney, his grandmother must be cooking already. And as he gets closer, he can hear his mother in the back garden above the canal, crooning one of those old, woeful tales of hers. Síbil bleats at him from her pen when he opens the back gate and enters the garden.

His mother whips around in surprise, still kneeling in the dirt, song forgotten. 

“Oh, _makskáro_ , you're just in time,” she sighs, brushing her sweat-damp hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Áren — you know, Érityë’s father — his ship arrived back today. I invited him and the family over for dinner. We need your help in the kitchen, if you can.”

“Of course.” He nods and steps inside.

The back door opens directly into the kitchen where his grandmother is bent over, peering into the oven. Her hair is pulled back into a rare braid, no doubt to keep it out of all the food. She grabs the baking tray with mitted hands and brings it over to the counter to sit alongside the other prepared foods. When the door thuds shut, she notices him.

“Ah, child, here. Take this, will you?” She holds out a knife and a gourd — dripping wet, it must be freshly washed from the garden.

He holds his hands up. “I need to wash up first, then I’ll do anything you need.”

“Then hurry up, child,” she insists.

He drops his bag to the floor and hangs his cloak on the rack. She follows him to the washing basin.

“Just slice it. Make it look fancy like your mother does. That thing with the…?” she trails off, waving the knife in his face. “You know what I mean.”

He nods, eager to get the knife out of her hands. “Yes, grandmother.” He grabs the gourd and quickly sets to work on it, slicing it thinly and cutting patterns into the center of the rounds.

\------

The house is toasty by the time the dinner preparations are complete. The oven is covered, and the windows and doors are opened to freshen the air and let in some light. Armitage is just setting the last seat at the table when he hears Síbil’s loud bleat from outside.

Footsteps track up the main path to the front door. A large hand knocks on the frame.

“Come in!” his mother calls for the guests to enter. “The food’s just finished. It’s all still hot.”

One by one, Áren, his wife, and their daughter track in. Armitage’s grandmother helps each of them hang their cloak on the rack by the door.

“It’s so nice to see you back safe, Áren!” she greets. “I've heard the waters have been difficult this summer.” 

“They’ve been worse,” he waves it off, surveying the dining area with a smile. “I'm glad to be back, all the same. Thank you for letting us into your home, Sjýri.”

She grins. “You know we would always have you! Now, sit down! Érityë, you can take that seat next to my grandson. Oh, Sîrid, your daughter is so beautiful. She looks just like you.”

Érit tosses Armitage a warm smile, taking her seat as he takes his. They were born in the same harsh winter, in a time when few children were being born, and have always been close.

“It’s been a while,” she greets. “How is everything going on base?”

“Things are picking up. We’ve been busy at work, and there are some changes going on at the consulate.”

“Any new books?” she whispers behind her hand conspiratorially, eyes alight. He’s been downloading books from the base’s library onto a little datapad for her for years, to help her learn Standard in secret.

“Two,” he whispers back. “You’ll love them. I can get them for you later.”

She nods as everyone else takes a seat at the table, Armitage's mother and grandmother giving Áren and Sîrid the cooler side near the window. There's barely enough room; the round table was never really meant for more than four. Once everyone's plates have been filled, Áren starts the conversation.

“So, Méredhe, I heard from the butcher that a family of arktos has been spotted in the highlands.”

“Oh, yes, I've heard,” she laments, “but I'm afraid I'm too old to start that up again.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. “If you're old, then what am I?” 

Armitage can't help but squirm, in part out of sympathy for his mother. She _is_ still young, and most people have the courtesy not to mention it around the two of them.

“I'm old enough to demand my weight in salt for one arkto.” She gives him a fierce grin. “You're old enough to go out there with the crones and fetch it.” 

The table laughs, and Áren lets out a hoot, but he’s never been one to back down.

“A strong woman with a sharp mind like yours is no doubt missed around the flocks,” he insists. “They could use all the hunters they can get. Are you really happy here, keeping so far from town?”

“Áren, don't question her good choices,” his wife chastises, pointing her fork at him. “I, for one, love this area. Close to the river, the forest, and the sea. This land is great.”

“Yes, it’s quite peaceful,” she concurs. “Mother and I keep plenty busy out here, and Armitage doesn't have to go far to get to the base.”

“Ah, you see that Kasit fellow often, child?” Áren asks between bites, sparing him barely a glance.

Armitage shifts a little in his seat. Áren has a similar attitude toward the _fostáme_ as many others do. It’s not a benevolent one, and certainly not fit for the dinner table.

“I did, but they've just replaced Kasit, actually. Some, er, specialists,” he mumbles. There's really not much to say. “They’re being sent from the capital of the Republic. One of the emissaries told me they're arriving tomorrow.”

“What do you make of these so-called specialists?” Sîrid asks.

“I haven't met them, yet, so I don't know.” 

Áren quizzes him further, brows raised. “You haven't used one of those holo image things to see them?”

He takes a careful bite of his food before he can say anything brash. Áren is a traditionalist. He spends almost all his time out at sea; he doesn’t want anything to do with the people on base or their _ugly_ technology, and certainly doesn’t care to be corrected on what any of it is called.

“No,” Armitage says after a moment. “I haven't had the chance to speak with them. I only found out about all of this today. Vara, the emissary, wants me to speak with the _éden_ personally and schedule a meeting. They want to meet with her before _Kjára_.”

“Too busy to ask someone else, eh?” Áren chuckles.

Armitage bites his tongue and looks down at his plate. _Of course he would._

“I suppose so,” he murmurs faintly, pushing the vegetables around his plate with his fork. 

“I wonder how they'll do,” Érit chimes in smartly. Bless her. “Just be another Kasit? A Jemes? _Marlá_ forbid another Okko.” She bumps his elbow with hers.

Armitage just can’t help himself.

“Maybe they'll actually be good this time,” he suggests to his plate.

“As if the arkto is ever good to the capra,” Áren laughs, nodding over to the ex-hunter. “Hey, Méredhe, here’s another one for you.”

Armitage looks up at the man, challenging. He knows it's not his place to argue with a distinguished sailor like Áren, but he feels he must set the record straight.

“I wouldn't call them an arkto,” he intones calmly. “They do good things for us. They help.”

The women at the table all pause in their eating, either for what he just said, or for what is about to be said.

Áren finally looks directly at him, raising a brow and hulking forward over the table. “You really are still working for those _fostáme_ , huh?”

He nods briefly, back straight.

“Is the work good?”

“Excellent. I learn new things every day, and the pay is enough that neither I nor my mother or grandmother need to work all day.”

“And they aren't mistreating you, are they? Making you work during _Kjára_? Making you conform to their rules?”

“ _No_ , the consulate has done a good job with relations. Of course,” he allows, “there are still rules that have to be followed—”

“So they _are_ making you conform?” Áren insists, and Armitage can feel everything start to slip from his grasp.

“No, I choose to follow their rules.”

“Would they stop paying you if you didn't?”

“Well, yes,” he admits after a pause.

“Then it isn't a choice, is it?”

“Áren, _please_.” Sîrid places a hand on her husband's arm, but he throws it off.

“No! These people came in and took our land and now they're forcing us to follow their rules, work for them, and starve to death if we don't. They're trying to kill us off — the people _and_ the culture — and they're succeeding. It makes me angry to see an _óstolte_ taken from his good home by the _fostáme_ and crippled.”

“I’m not crippled!” Armitage protests, but the large man just makes himself larger and hardens his voice, pointing his meaty, callused finger at him.

“All you've ever done is sat on your arse with those _fostáme_ and played with your toys. Never worked a day in your life, have you? You haven't even taken to sea _once_ , and you're practically a grown man.”

“Áren—”

Armitage smacks his fork onto the table. “If you would just get over your fear of them,” he snaps, “maybe you'll see that we could benefit from them. They have such huge advancements in technology that we could all use to make our lives easier.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Áren declares.

He stands up abruptly, knocking his chair back. “I do know exactly what I'm talking about. I actually go to the consulate and I help them help us.”

Áren shakes his head and looks back to his food. “You're hardly even one of us, _óstolte_. You're just another _fostámi_ with red hair.”

His mouth snaps shut.

The entire table is silent. This is a sensitive subject, but no secret. A bastard, an _óstolte_ , a fatherless child, half-outsider. It seems that's what it always comes down to with these damn purists.

His heart pounds in his chest, and he looks over to his mother, but she just gives a frown and a small shake of her head. His grandmother doesn't even look at him. She never takes part in these conversations.

Unbothered, Áren resumes eating. He is not the kind of man Armitage can oppose, really — not on his own. He wants to storm out, make an even bigger scene, even fight the man, but he just pulls his chair back in, sits down, and takes back to his food, as well.

The scrape of the two forks against the obsidian plates is loud with neither rain nor chatter to obscure the shrieks. It takes a minute before everyone else breaks from the spell. They eat in silence.

Armitage is the first to finish, rising from the table and stalking outside without a word. He crosses the garden and sits up on the fence of Síbil’s pen, then just watches the clouds crawl across the sky.

As much as he’d still like to talk with Érit, pass her that datapad, he won’t go back inside until Áren’s family leaves. He can’t help but feel a small, admittedly unjustified sting of betrayal at her inaction against her father. She’s not at all to blame for his shortcomings, and it’s Armitage’s duty to bear it alone.

Eventually, after a fair amount of brooding, he watches as Áren’s family leaves the house and takes their skiff back to town.

But he still doesn’t want to turn back in. He doesn’t want to be stuck inside those stone walls, forced to watch his grandmother avoid his gaze for the rest of the evening. He wants sit and keep brooding. He wants to stay outside and let the rain take him. He wants to keep fat, ornery Síbil company, scaring the little vulpdogs from digging up their garden.

The door behind him suddenly swings open and thuds shut again. A few beats later, a firm hand falls upon his shoulder. His throat begins to grow tight once more at the thought of confrontation. He lets the tension grow as a cold heat takes over him.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what Áren said? Or for inviting him?” He holds his breath.

“For both.”

He sucks in a staggering gasp and bites his lip. “Are you sorry he said it, or sorry it's true?” 

In the waxing silence, he turns to look at his mother.

Her eyes are pale in her scorn. Her lips carry a tremble, and a sanguine hue has captured her cheeks. He cannot bear it, and turns his stinging eyes to the grass.

“Your quarrel is with me,” he whispers, uneager to stoke the burning woman. She has long since proven her rage to be a weapon. “I'm sorry for ruining dinner.”

“Do not think so highly of yourself, Armitage,” she spits.

The grip on his shoulder is a vice. This biting hold is the last thing the arkto feels before its soul is shucked. He shudders, but does not spill a tear.

“My quarrel is with many things. You are near among the least, and my quarrel there lies in actions not your own.” 

He turns again to his mother and sees something deeper in her face now, perhaps some underlying sadness. Her eyes are lost in the distance.

“You were born to me. I raised you here, in the house my mother raised me in. I have taught you our ways, our words, our wisdom. There is no doubt, nor could there ever be, that you are one of us.

“And yet, you are only half mine. In part, _because_ of me and my actions,” she mourns softly. She regards him once again, following the familiar lines of his face. “You look so much like your father.”

Something in him jolts. She speaks of him so seldomly that he could almost believe he didn't have a father at all.

“I gave you one of their names for a reason, Armitage,” her voice is a heated whisper now, “taught you Standard for a reason. Everything I have done, I have done to give you a better life. I want you to be able to choose.

“They are always going to talk about you. Always. Both sides. Neither will ever see you as one of their own, and that is not your fault. I brought you into this, and it is my guilt to bear.

“You must carve your own path out of what you've been given, but you must also understand the depth of it. Áren is far from alone in his feelings. If you leave now, if you pick one side over the other, you will lose many things you once believed untouchable.”

She abruptly pulls her hand back and pushes through the gate, striding directly over to the chopping block where her hatchet lies.

The hatchet gleams when she picks it up. It is her fine one, emblazoned with an arkto and embellished further with the family lines. A woman at the smithy gifted it to her after she tracked and killed the arkto that broke open her sister's pen.

“Pick up yours and come join me,” she calls, motioning to the other hatchet on the block.

Armitage pushes himself off the fence and makes his way over to his mother, who has already started on the pile of logs. Her movements are seamless, effortless. She's slender, as their people tend to be, but lacks no strength for it. Watching her, it's easy to imagine that she is dancing, and not cleaving wood.

He lifts the hatchet and sets to work. With each draw, the fire from earlier finds new strength; with each strike, new release. After a while, a sort of acceptance begins to settle over him again. He thinks back over all he had felt at the dinner table.

Anger.

He doesn't know how he could have expected anything less from a storm-weathered fisherman like Áren. That man would never set foot on base but to burn it down. He follows no way but the old way, the _marlánysîl_ way. 

Indignation.

To come into this house as a guest and look down his nose at Armitage, to call him _óstolte_ and _fostámi_ … He hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The truth cannot be washed away.

Disappointment.

He doesn't know who his father is. He can't defend him, or attack him. He can't say whether he was one of the good, well-meaning ones, or one of the bad ones, who would have had them killed, or even one of the moderate ones, who would just as soon keep to himself as engage with their people.

A part of him wishes he knew, and that his father was one of the good ones. But he doesn't know. He'll never know. His father died when he was very young, and the people that knew him left so many years ago.

He breathes deeply and lets the wood take his worries from his shoulders.

\------

Outside the house, the wind whistles through the trees. The clouds have opened up again, their raindrops clicking against the slate rooftop. The shutters have been closed over the windows, and the house is dark, save for a single candle burning at the altar in the main room. A lone voice murmurs with the rain.

“ _Föaíëta ýäm aména it kar. Tíniä im sîn sjuósems. Tai rómena im. Desjéla pyr aménem ôtue han ýämem an_.”

Armitage opens his eyes and picks up the candle, rising from the red arkto-skin rug upon which he knelt. He doesn't know why he still prays. Prayers have never done him or his mother any good, which even she will admit on occasion. _Prayers are for children and fools_ , he thinks as he carries the lit candle to his small bedroom. _I must be a fool._

But last night’s dream was strange, and he does not care to see it again. So he prays. He only wishes he understood what it meant. _Médene_ would have answers, although they would likely take days to ponder, and whatever they told him would be vague and half-riddle. But it would be better than nothing, he supposes. _Marlá_ has never been known to be clear, and to ignore or reject her messages is a great slight. He will go to _médene_ when he speaks to the _éden_ about the new emissaries.

Remembering that they arrive tomorrow, he can only hope that they will be good men. Relations between his people and the _fostáme_ had been slowly and steadily deteriorating under Kasit’s guidance. There hadn't been any violence, but the sanctions’ grip on them tightened with the passing of each and every _Kjára_ , and everyone, on base and off, has grown restless. Despite what he boasted to Áren, Armitage has been taking longer shifts every day, and it soon won't be enough. If the specialists, as Vara referred to them, are special at all, then they should soon return to peace. 

With that thought, he blows out the candle and lets his prayer drift off to find _Marlá_.

\------

The night rain fell in full through the morning, and the raindrops are heavy on the land. The canal behind the house is nearly full, and the trees Armitage passes on the way to work are laden and sagging. Thunder cracks loud overhead. Cloaked and hooded, he does what he can to avoid the puddles and waterlogged patches of earth, but the rain is still coming down when he reaches the base.

He crosses the old district easily enough — there's rarely any sort of traffic there — but when he reaches southeastern hangars, he's brought to a stop.

People, everywhere. On every corner, crowding the sidewalks, even people openly walking in the streets. Many of them are wearing their brightly colored safety vests, but most are simply in their usual dark fatigues. They are all moving, but not in the same direction.

The only word he has to describe this is, well, _busy_.

He’s about to turn around to try and find an alternate route when a vicious _crack_ breaks out overhead. But that's not thunder, it's—

_Crack!_

Another one. He turns his gaze skyward. Through the rain in his eyes, and against the bright glow of the clouds, he can make out the dark shapes shrouded in fading firebursts.

Ships. Large ones. At least, larger than he's ever seen skyborne. They must be why the hangars are so busy.

He's knocked nearly off his feet when someone in a vest runs carelessly past.

“ _Watch it, red!_ ”

He yanks his hood back up and turns away from the crowd, slowly making his way to work by the lesser roads.

The workshop is already open by the time he gets there. He can see from outside that the upstairs office light is on. The supervisor must be in. Armitage enters with his code and immediately pulls off his cloak, hanging it on the inside of the door. He sets his bag in the corner, and moves to his desk, ready to work.

 _ **17 new orders**_ , the display reads when he turns it on. _That can't be right_. He flips through them to count. Seventeen. He's never gotten seventeen work orders overnight before. That's outrageous. _But then_ , he considers, _it's also money_.

He knows he won't be able to get through all of the orders today, but if he starts now, he can make a good dent by dinnertime. He pulls his hair back and rolls up his sleeves.

It's lunchtime when the office door slams shut and feet pound hard down the steps. He is elbow-deep in an engine bay, feeling for a port — he knows there's a droid out there built for exactly this, but until he can justify the cost, he'll have to do without. He looks up when his supervisor enters the workshop.

He's a short man, and just as short of wit. He really has very little business being in charge of anything, if you ask Armitage.

“How are you coming along on those?”

“The first three are done,” he grits out. He's found the port, now just to insert the connector. “I've moved them over to the pickup bay already.”

The man smiles. “Great. We're going to be getting much more work, now those new guys have arrived.”

“Oh, that's right! The emissaries.” It's almost in, he's just got to rotate it to fit.

“Emissaries? No, I'm talking about the troops.”

The connector hits the floor with a clang. He doesn't make any move to pick it up, just stares at his supervisor.

“Troops? _Why?_ ”

“Didn't you hear? It's been in the newsletter for weeks. They think the war’s starting right here. They just sent us a whole squadron of starfighters.”

His stomach turns to stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of background: Since he’s not really one of the Huxes in this AU, Armitage’s patronymic surname (the one that counts) is Óstolte, meaning “son of no one.” Patronyms are very important in their culture, as the men typically spend most of the year out at sea, and you’ve gotta remember whose kids are whose somehow. Typically, he is referred to by his matronym Óstolméredhe.
> 
> Yes, I have invented a language. It is super complicated (or simple, depending on your native language) and still in development. To help myself, I use a notation (very similar to Greek notation) to specify pronunciation. That’s why you see so many freakin’ diacritics. "Fostáme" literally translates as, "the ones who came to us." 
> 
> I’ve also made a religion and basically a whole culture and history (because you can’t really have a real language without that stuff). But I don’t want to nerd out too much here, so feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com), where I will certainly nerd out a lot.


	4. kaí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ben, I like to pick a relevant Florence and the Machine song where Flo sounds like she's dying, then I put it on repeat until I also feel like I'm dying. Then I write.
> 
> This chapter is kind of long. Sorry.
> 
> [Chapter art](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/178501423949/in-the-hearts-of-men-chapter-three-in-the-hearts)

The base, although small and spread thin, is bustling when they arrive. Everyone around seems to have a job to do, and to be eager to do it. From the moment Ben stepped off the ship and into the hangar, he’s been spared only the barest of glances, save for one stout, human woman ushering them into a landcruiser just outside the bay doors.

“It’s just a short ride to the consulate, now,” she says as soon as he, Mara, Luke and Pascaline are all seated inside. She speaks down at the screen in her hands instead of up at them. “We could walk, but I didn’t want to make you all deal with the rain so soon after you landed.”

Through the tinted viewports, Ben watches the rain fall in droves. It’s heavy enough to cast a haze about the streets, but he still considers how thankful his legs would be for the walk. The few days they spent on that transport were miserable — tight military quarters, one sonic for forty men, absolutely no privacy to speak of. His skin is tight from the ship’s dry, recycled air.

The woman is still talking, swiping and tapping away at her device. “You know, you all have some great timing. After we got the news about the last Ambassador, we didn’t hear anything from the Senate for the longest time. I thought we’d have to go completely without for a while, which would _not_ be ideal, obviously — the abos here need a firm hand. But when the State Secretary’s assistant finally got back to us and told us they would be sending you, _oh!_ I was so thankful.”

After a moment of silence, Ben looks over at Pascaline and raises a brow. _Who is this lady?_ She just shrugs. Their brief didn’t include any images.

As if on cue — and before he has a chance to probe her mind —, the strange woman lifts her bright eyes up to the four of them and grins. Her teeth are white.

“I’m Vara K'Mondha, by the way,” she finally introduces. “Secretary to the Ambassador to Arkanis main. Anything you need, I’m the one to talk to! I take it…” she waves her finger across each of them before landing on Luke, “you’re the Ambassador? And these must all be your employees.”

Mara draws herself up, and Ben bites his lip.

“We’re all the Ambassador, actually,” she corrects the secretary, lips pursed. “Entirely equal in status for this purpose, like a council. That would make you _our_ employee.”

“Hm?” Vara nearly squeaks, still smiling but shaking her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. My position is under the State Department, directly for the Galactic Senate.”

Mara maintains an entirely straight face as she pulls out and flashes her Senatorial token, one of the few awarded exclusively to the sitting members of the Jedi High Council. “I think you’ll find that we _are_ the Senate, ma’am.” 

She blanches upon seeing it. “Oh. Okay.” The bright screen lights up her round face again as she goes back to tapping on it. 

The last minute or so of the ride passes in silence, until the cruiser stops in front of a row of old structures. Its doors open and Vara leads them out into the pouring rain.

“This is us,” she announces, gesturing up at one weather-worn, multi-story building and walking up to a short set of outdoor steps. “It’s prudent, but it works. All the arrangements for your apartments and amenities and all that are right up here, if you’ll just follow me.”

She leads them up the steps and in through what must be the front door, which is labelled in boldface Aurebesh letters, ‘CONSULATE.’

Stepping inside and brushing the wet hair out of his face, Ben takes a second to survey the main area. He can’t help but notice that it is… low tech.

The few people down here are working on old, outdated datapads. They’re something like the kind he could probably still find in his mother’s old storage unit, should he look hard enough. Just thinking about the awful blue tint of those old holoscreens makes his eyes ache. He hopes he doesn’t have to use any of that stuff often.

Breaking him out of the bad atmosphere, Luke clasps a hand on his shoulder with a not-insignificant look and ushers him up a close flight of stairs to join the others.

“...and we will go out and see a bit of their town later,” Secretary K’Mondha is saying, sitting down at a desk under a foggy window and swapping her little device for the large screen in front of her. “A few of them work with us here at the consulate — they’ll be our guides,” she asides.

“But first things first, you’re going to need keys. All the buildings on base have locks, as well as the main gates leading off-base after dark. I have pre-loaded passes here with your security clearance.” She hands four small cards over to Luke. “You can also download your key to a comm or minipad if you have one. Aside from this very building here, all entrances are locked.”

“Even the mess hall?” Luke jokes.

“Especially the mess hall.” At the disbelieving looks from the four Jedi, she goes on to explain, “we let some of the _natives_ work here on base to earn credits to use at Main Exchange. They have poor land for farming, so we try to help where we can, of course. But unfortunately, as is only natural in cases like this, some of them are inclined to steal from us. Food, especially, is a big target.”

“So don’t lose them, is what you’re saying,” Ben surmises, brow raised. He looks down at the keycard in his hand, turning it over to study both sides. It’s got a little loop to attach to a chain, so losing it shouldn’t be a problem. He supposes he’ll have to watch it around the natives, though. 

“Exactly. You’d be dead without one of those keys.” She turns back to her screen. “Now, as for lodging…”

-

“She's really something, isn't she?”

“Hm?”

He and Mara are back at the apartment, which sits in a small residential block a short walk from the consulate. Four flats, two over two. Almost every building Ben’s seen on base has been short like this, with the exception of the hangar their shuttle docked in. It’s certainly a far cry from Hanna City.

He swipes his key over the panel on Mara’s door just to see if it works. It doesn’t.

“The secretary,” his mentor clarifies, “K’Mondha. I said she’s something.” They walk over to Luke’s door. He and Pascaline are off fetching luggage.

“Oh,” Ben nods and swipes his key. This panel also turns red. “Yeah. I thought there’d be blood when she insinuated you worked for Luke.”

Smirking, Mara reaches over and swipes hers. Same red light. They move on to Ben’s. Her card doesn’t work, but his does, as it should. They enter.

“What do you make of her?” she probes when the door closes. She makes a point of studying the corners and nooks of the flat. “Any feeling you get from her, in particular?”

“She's kind of annoying,” Ben confesses with a shrug, casting his eyes about the room and feeling it out. He doesn’t get any sense of being watched or listened in on.

“I think we’re clear.”

Mara takes at the small kitchen table, and Ben sits opposite her. He gives the flat another glance. It’s fully furnished as promised, if a little understated. 

“Now, use your head and elaborate,” she commands. A test, then.

“Well, she barely looks at anyone she's talking to. She's kind of impersonal.” He considers her behavior for a moment, concrete things she’s done instead of just his own emotional reactions. “She tried to assert her power pretty early on before you stepped in. And I was surprised — not totally surprised, but a little surprised — that she called the people here _‘abos’_ instead of something more professional. I thought that was more of a Core or Mid thing to do.”

Mara nods, expression unreadable. “I agree, but you must remember that virtually everyone on base is from somewhere Coreward of here. Even if this is her job, that doesn't change who she really is.”

“Of course not. It was just,” he shrugs, “weird, I guess. And I didn't think there would be such tight security, either.” He stares down at the tabletop. It has a scratch in it, and he runs his finger along it.

“This is a military base, Ben.”

“I know. It was a stupid expectation,” he dismisses.

“No, it wasn't. From your perspective, all your expectations are reasonable.”

He looks up. “What?”

“And that goes for anyone, for that matter,” she continues. “Forget your mother's Senate experience; consider _this_ your first lesson in diplomacy. Real diplomacy, with real people.”

“I haven't even met the real people.”

“We will, soon enough. Nothing’s stopping you from learning theory right now. I figure we have, what, ten minutes before they get back?” Her expression is somewhat playful, and he gets the feeling she’s pulling something.

He hears a crackle behind him and glances back at the door where he imagines Luke and Pascaline could be. Nothing’s there. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. He shrugs and turns back to his mentor, giving her a good once-over, visually and Force-wise, for any more signs of trickery. He can never quite tell with her, as she’s always got that same look and is an expect obscurer. “Lay it on me. What’s the strategy? The plan of attack?”

“Ah, the strategy is not to attack, first of all.” She raises a brow and leans in. “But more importantly, let’s establish the ground rules: how many sides are there in this conflict?”

Ben thinks for a second. It sounds like that expected sort of trick question she’s always roping him into, but he can’t imagine what the trick would be.

“Well, _we_ aren’t really on anyone’s side, right? Since we’re Jedi?”

Mara nods.

“And the New Republic and the Arkani people have issues?”

She nods again.

“So, then at least three? Us, the New Republic, the Arkani, and however many outliers there are that haven’t been noted.”

She shakes her head quickly. “Totally wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re approaching this like something domestic, like it’s all within your control, and it’s not.” She sits up straight and gathers herself. “The goal of diplomacy is to _take_ control in the first place. There are only ever two sides: you, and your adversary. In this case, it’s us, as the acting head of the New Republic, versus the Arkani and anyone else who stands in the way of our control.”

“Are you sure ‘diplomacy’ is the right word for that?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

She smiles sadly. “It sounds nicer on the holodramas, doesn’t it?”

Something icy wriggles in his chest, and he gets the distinct impression that she’s about to make it sound a lot worse.

She does.

“There are three tenets of diplomacy. As I was taught them,” she counts on her fingers, “they are force, aid, and options. These all serve to steer everyone away from conflict, but only if they’re all used in conjunction.

“First, you must make it clear to your adversary that conflict with you is extremely dangerous.”

Ben raises a hand to speak, but Mara dismisses him.

“Let me finish. Now, a strong show of force does do wonders, but it can also do damage to your reputation. Balance is key with is. Cripple them, don’t kill them. What’s your question?”

Lost in the _cripple_ bit, it takes a second for him to remember her question. “Won’t that just provoke them? You just said the strategy is not to attack, but now…”

“You see, it’s not an attack if it comes from a friend, from their perspective. Remember that we offer aid next.”

“Aid them after attacking them?” The confusion must show on his face, she offers a sympathetic smile.

“These things all work together,” she repeats. “Give them some of the things they need — everyone needs something, after all. Use that opportunity to strengthen their reliance on you. You’ve already made them _need_ with your attack, now make them need _you_.”

“Oh.” That’s… really sick, but it makes sense. He sinks into his chair.

“Finally,” she concludes, “you must give them options. They can fight and lose, or they can submit gracefully. Everyone needs an honorable path of escape. Do not try to bend anyone fully to your will, just pull them closer than they were before. You can repeat these steps until you’re done.”

It hits him like a punch to the gut, and he recoils. “We’re just here to repeat steps.”

She gives it to him with a quick tilt of the head.

“Is that—” He jerks, balling a fist for a minute while he thinks it over, eyes boring through the table in front of him. “I know that our job is to serve the New Republic.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Yeah,” he grits out. The chill that started in his chest is spreading to his shoulders. “But, as Jedi — is this the right thing to do?”

“Is it?” is all she counters.

And _oh_ , that’s loaded. The implications of her question — his question — leave him reeling in silence for several minutes.

Perspective.

He doesn’t know what’s right. There are, after all, two sides. Logically, he knows he doesn’t know these Arkani people. He doesn’t know their situation. He doesn’t know what the attacks are, the aid, the options. He doesn’t know what’s better, what’s worse, what’s objectively right and wrong for these people.

And he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong for the Republic, either. Is one side morally superior? Does that warrant intervention? Is the threat that great?

All he knows is that he doesn’t know.

And he can’t ever really know because he’s on a side, now.

And to make it that much worse, the existential question echoes throughout his mind. _Is it up to me, either way?_ It’s not really for him to say what’s right and what’s wrong for others. It’s up to them to decide.

_But they don’t always know for themselves._

But no, that’s wrong. He can’t make that choice for anyone.

Except now he is, in a sense.

_But if it’s for the best…_

“You’ve been anxious to begin your Trials.”

He doesn’t deign her with a reply, keeps his mouth shut, his lips sealed.

It’s kriffed up. It’s all _kriffed up_. This is not morally ambiguous, this is morally _torturous_ and if—

“If you intervene, it can be good or it can be bad. If you do nothing, it can be good or it can be bad.”

 _Stop_.

“Use your head—”

“Stop.”

“Ben—”

“Stop.” He huffs out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “How do you justify this? How do you feel good about this?”

“You don’t.”

He snaps his open gaze up to her steady one. There’s a touch of pity in her face, but no sign of remorse.

“There comes a time where one must stop looking for right and wrong, and start seeking perspective and understanding, instead.”

His voice is no more than a fluttered whisper when he speaks again. “I want to do good.”

“You will, Ben. To some people, you will be the greatest thing there ever was.”

“And to some people, I’ll be the worst.” For most of his life, he had accepted, even celebrated, that he would be bad news to bad people. But…

“It’s up to you to accept that you will do bad things to good people. That’s perspective, Ben.”

A charged silence falls over them, building up into something tumultuous. It crawls over Ben’s skin, slips into his mouth and lodges itself in his throat. Choking on it, he walks out.

He doesn't know where he's going, just _out_. He walks and walks under mocking grey skies, past sad grey buildings, and mulls the whole thing over, lets it roil in his chest.

The lesson at the Academy had been clear, if a bit brief. We strive for good, but accept that what is good for most is not what is good for all, and that _good_ and _bad_ are still purely subjective and not always obvious. But it hadn't been… like this.

It had been a bunch of younglings arguing over chocolate distribution.

But this — this is so in-your-face and cold, and Ben supposes it's only fitting that this hard truth would be laid out for him by such a woman as his mentor. Mara Jade — the Jedi, the Sith — is the one member of the Council most acquainted with… perspective. She's not just talk, she's lived it.

He supposes she’s living proof of the other side, that one can somehow toss morality to the wayside and still be — is ‘good’ the word? A Jedi, he settles. She is, in fact, everything they stand for. She’s logical and impartial where Ben just _feels_ , and while they’ve had struggles in that past, he knows that her guidance is true.

He knows he’ll have to abandon those words, ‘good’ and ‘bad’, if he hopes to push himself past this trial. He’ll have to focus on the truth.

 _The Force knows the truth,_ he reminds himself, _and I trust wholly in the Force_. He repeats the mantra over and over until the grip on his lungs eases.

Now somewhat relaxed, Ben stops walking. He can meditate on this dilemma tonight, _after_ he learns about their adversary and gains perspective. Torturing himself over this internal debate will gain him nothing but grief, and Jedi Knights aren’t born from grief. They’re born from… he’s never been good with words. He looks up from the ground, searching for the right idea. It’s right in his face, all around him.

 _Fortitude_. He nods to himself and whispers the word aloud. Jedi Knights are born from fortitude, like these buildings. They aren’t pretty, but they’re standing strong. He imagines that almost _anything_ he’d ever seen on Chandrila wouldn’t last long in this weather. _So_ , he steels himself, _trust in the Force, have mental fortitude._

He takes a deep breath and lets go of his struggle, for now. Time for something lighter, easier. He looks out again at the buildings surrounding him. Since he's already out here…

-

Ben’s been out for at least a couple of hours, wandering and exploring the walkable parts of the base. He’s discovered that while they don’t have a positioning system to tell you where you are, they do have a sort of alright map with the important things labelled. 

One of those important things is a small exchange shop with bad music and a rather pitiful selection of snackfoods.

Tul’s Famous Starpops! Tul’s Flaming Fizzlecrackles! Tul’s Select roasted red-mink jerky with Starblast™ Spice! _Who is Tul, and what the hell is a starblast supposed to taste like?_

The buzzing sign above them says they’re twenty percent cheaper than retail price _and_ tax-free — _thanks, Galactic government!_ —, but the markup for intersystem shipping is outrageous.

He grimaces and turns his back on the snacks. It’s not for want of credits, just a special distaste for rip-offs that his dad instilled in him. None of them look remotely appetizing enough for that many credits. He’ll have to hope for a good source of snacks elsewhere.

He looks around some more, but the rest of the shop doesn’t turn up much, just basic toiletries, some military uniform essentials — belts are very popular, apparently — a few weird drinks underneath a NO ALCOHOL SOLD HERE sign, and a couple of dressed out dudes in a corner, laughing over something on a minipad screen.

Having found nothing of interest here, he steps outside and pulls out his own device to take another look at that map.

Up on the far northern side of the base is something like a village. Most of the residential blocks are up there, along with a few eateries, some shops and a couple of bars.

He’s thinking about how to get up there — it’s too far to walk, and he hasn’t seen any sign of open transport so far — when a message lights up the top of his screen.

**Consulate in 10m - MJ**

_Kriff_. He turns on his heel and sets off at a jog, back in the direction he came from, checking that map every minute or so to make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be.

As the map says, he is indeed passing through some gritty district that clearly belongs to all the maintenance engineers, past a whole bunch of mini-hangars, some almost warehouse-like workshops, and then the big hanger he came through when he first arrived.

There’s a turn up here somewhere; he’s not sure if it’s before or after this storage center coming up on the left. He looks closer at the map, zooming in for a clearer display. It’s got to be before, he judges, and quickly turns the corner—

He hits something. Hard. His comm flies out of his hand, and he cringes at the sound it makes as it skitters along the wet pavement. A second later, the pain hits, and he cringes even more.

Eyes closed, he gingerly brings a hand up to his forehead, where he can already feel the heat from a bruise coming along.

A jarring voice rings out, but it takes him a moment to register the words. “Watch it!”

He opens his eyes and _kriff_ , he must’ve hit his head harder than he thought. The colors jump out at him, and he blinks against the harshness. Something in his head pounds, he can hear a rushing in his ears, and there might just be blood in his eyes.

After a couple of clarifying blinks, the bright, bright red and white and blue resolve into a person. And yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with his head; even without a sun shining down, the light seems to scatter and glow and glare off of them.

“You dropped something,” the person tells him.

Before Ben can scrum up an apology, they’re gone, leaving him to rub at his forehead for a good minute while he gathers his wits.

The rushing in his ears fades, the colors around aren’t so vivid — as if there were even any to speak of before, everything around here is so grey.

He breathes in the heavy air. His comm, he needs to pick that up. And he needs to get to the consulate. He also needs to be a little more mindful of his surroundings. 

He blinks hard and sets off again at a slightly slower pace, walking purposefully along the streets and making it the consulate without further incident.

His uncle meets him outside on the steps, holding a dark blue cloak out for him to wear over his robes.

“You’re late,” he chastises softly and drags him inside and up the stairs. They slip quietly into the same room they had their first meeting in before and stand against the wall by the door.

Secretary K’Mondha is sitting up in her stiff chair under the window, talking to Mara and Pascaline. No one shows any signs on noticing their entry.

“…and then you’ll be meeting their leader in a few days. Today, we’ll just be seeing a bit of the I-P-Z.”

“What does IPZ stand for?” Pascaline cuts in.

“Indigenous Population Zone,” she spells out casually. “We let them keep that whole area entirely to themselves. They won’t ever have to worry about growth in that direction. If the base gets any bigger, it’ll be on the northern side, away from them.”

Pascaline nods. “That’s good.”

The secretary hums her agreement. “Quite! I think we’ve been more than fair. I just wish we could reach a stronger truce with them.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Mara assures with authority. With an eye in his direction, she finally acknowledges his presence, and a little bit of that tight feeling makes itself known in his throat again. “Are we all ready to go now?”

Ben answers with a single nod and turns out the door. His head is still hurting a little, and he doesn’t care much for all the talk. K’Mondha said they’re going to see the IPZ or whatever, so that’s what he’ll commit to.

He goes downstairs ahead of the party and waits inside by the door, resting against the wall and willing the monotony of this dreadful open office space to take away the dull headache.

Except it’s not monotonous. A couple of people in the back corner are speaking heatedly in soft tones. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying from here, but it’s definitely an argument, and one person especially is getting more riled up with each second.

It’s the person he ran into just a few minutes ago. He knows it. That same oddly bright hair that obscures their face, the deep blue cloak. Just looking at them, he can feel the hit again.

They’ve got whomever they’re speaking to backed up to the wall, and they’re starting to get louder.

Ben can sort of make out something vaguely Imperial about the voice, and then something more melodic and whipping as he ramps the volume up a little more.

He doesn’t want to interrupt blindly, so he listens closely and _focuses_. With just a touch of the Force on his side, he can make out bits and pieces.

“...against everything...we cannot stand by...you agreed...promised...you’re done.”

It ends in a near-shout, and the man — he can tell it’s a man, now, by the hard angles of his sneering face — whirls around and storms to the door. He glares at Ben as he approaches, teeth bared.

“Move.”

Ben pushes off the wall, but instead of stepping away, he takes a step toward him, remembering to give his forgotten apology from earlier.

“Sorry for running into you.” He offers out his hand to shake.

The man’s steps falter for just a second before he pushes bodily past him and —

 _The rushing sound from when he hit his head is back, louder than ever. The skin where they bumped shoulders is on fire, and_ —

“Just go away,” the man mutters coldly, pushing the door open and disappearing behind it.

Rattled, all Ben can do is stare at the threshold. _That feeling again._

“Don’t mind him. They’re all like that, mad about everything.”

He turns to look at the man who just spoke. It’s the worker who was being accosted in the corner. 

“Just you watch.” The man lifts a finger up toward Ben and speaks again. “Someone’s gonna get killed one of these days. And then those folk’ll have what’s coming to them.”

The young man with the bright hair must be one of the indigenous people, then. Something in his stomach turns, and he swallows down the sudden urge to throw up. The temper is one thing, and then his vision?

 _If they’re all like that…_ He dreads to finish that thought.

The rapid beat of combined footsteps patters down the stairs behind him, and a strong hand clasps his shoulder.

“I can sense the strife in you from miles away,” his mentor murmurs shortly in his ear. “Shake it off. Let the Force have its energy back. That's all it will take for you to grow.” She gives him another clap and walks out the door, holding it open for him. He follows.

He wishes it were only so simple. A nagging itch of doom has been making a home inside his chest for months, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to kill it. It just digs and burrows deeper and sets its little traps.

He knows that the key to everything is the Force. He’s been told countless times to set aside his emotions and process everything with logic and reason. He should use the mind and the Force in tandem to achieve understanding.

That dynamic is supposed to clarify everything, but the deeper he goes, the less he knows, and he feels like he's losing his grip.

He can only imagine what the future will hold, and some small voice is telling him to go back, to stop, to quit. If he can't cope with the unknown or something as stupid as feeling bad, he shouldn't even be trying to attain Knighthood. He shouldn't be a part of this Order at all.

But again, _all of this can wait until later_ , he tells himself. _Let the Force have it. You have work to do_.

Behind him, Luke, Pascaline and Secretary K’Mondha make their way out of the building, saying some stuff about speeders and boats.

“Boats?” he questions aloud, face scrunched.

“You left early, Ben,” Pascaline smirks, yoking him by the collar and lugging him in the same direction Mara headed. “Coupled with arriving late, it only makes sense that you'd miss quite a bit of valuable information.”

Oh, she must make Luke so proud. Ben rolls his eyes.

“The boats,” Pascaline continues as they walk down the wet street, “are for the canals. The Arkani don't use roads much, and they definitely don't use speeders. They're very far behind, technologically; they don't even use electricity.

“The Imperials didn’t have loads to go on, but they thought that when the original people came to this planet, they crashed in the ocean and lost everything that brought them here.”

Ben blinks hard. This is a different kind of headache.

“Put that history lesson on a drive and give it to me later — boats?” he asks again, gesturing sharply to himself. “Are we using boats?”

“Yes, we are using boats. If you had been with the rest of us,” she gives him a pointed look, “you'd have known that the Arkani would destroy our speeders if they saw them. So we're taking speeders most of the way there, leaving them in a barn, then continuing by boat.”

He pulls his robes tighter and subtly feels for the saber resting against the small of his back. Boats aren’t exactly his preferred method of travel. He’s had flashbacks ever since that stint on Ma’nithp V with his dad.

He jokingly lets out a tiny, “I wanna go home.”

Pascaline laughs.

A little part of him kind of does want to go home, though, and not just because of what might lurk under the water.

Not far from the consulate, they come upon a big gate that opens up to absolute wilderness. Three speeders are waiting for them. Two to a speeder, then. And even without Mara’s chuckle about _old times_ , he knows he'll be with Pasc. 

They trail out on their speeders, one after another, following a rough-looking road and leaving the base behind.

Immediately, the emerald hills are a shock to his senses, contrasting so sharply with the greys he’s been staring at all day. Everything out here is just so _green_ , it rivals anything he’s ever seen.

It even smells green, sort of like the ozone and nitrates that give Chandrila so much wealth. Beneath that, he can make out the cooler tones of something bitter and almost wintery.

The brighter smells give way to that bitterness when they hit a forest so thick and so dark that they need their lights. The trees here are also vivid and unreal in a fantastical sort of way. Their trunks are thick and perfectly straight, growing taller than he can see.

They fly a bit slower, low under the outstretched branches, gliding through the gentle curves that wrap around a steep slope. It’s not raining, but the air here is damp, and he can feel dew gathering on his face where it cuts through the wind.

Just as enough moisture has gathered for a drop to roll down his forehead, the forest cuts out and they spill into open range again.

A dark roof over a white house crests into view from atop a flat hill. It stands stark against its backdrop — a dark, rocky foothill, growing up and off into mist-shrouded mountains in the distance. K’Mondha leads them up the path to the house.

As they approach, he sees that there are two other, smaller structures standing beside the house. One is made from the same white material, some type of stone cleaved into large blocks.

The other, however, is clear, see-through like transparisteel, but much glossier. The way it catches the light is like nothing he's ever seen before, not in real life.

They all slow to a stop together in front of the smaller stone building and turn off the speeders. Without their noise, he can now plainly hear some sort of whine or trumpeting.

He looks around, but doesn't see anything that could be making such a noise. It’s interrupted by the creak of a door.

A tall woman steps out of the house and gestures toward them, head held high. Her hair is the same bright, deep shock that the man in the consulate boasted, but it’s entirely unrestrained. It coils and snakes around her shoulders as she lifts an arm to point at the building behind them, and the ever-changing hue of her locks, from orange to blood red, unsettles him.

“Put those in the barn and come through the house,” she calls. Her voice carries the same melodic tone as he heard before, but more pronounced and heavily accented. “They have been waiting for you.” She turns back inside and leaves the door open for them.

“I'll put these away,” Pascaline volunteers, already reaching for the barn door and waving them on. “I'll be right behind you.”

Ben nods and leads the group across the tall grass and into the house, following after the strange woman.

Once inside, he has the courtesy not to ogle at everything, but he does take in the bare stone floor, the uncovered stone walls, the vaulted wooden ceilings. It's mostly empty, save for a kitchen off to the right and what looks like an altar off to the left.

The house is not very deep; the back door is directly across from the front, coverable in a few good paces. The woman takes them right outside and into a full garden.

With her back still to him, he studies her a bit more. She looks slight, but he can tell she’s not weak. Her stride is weightless with the lightest steps, as if she might pick up a breeze and fly away, but each footfall is sure, and she carries the sort of balance he’s only seen in trained warriors.

There’s something else that feels unspeakably dangerous about her, but it’s not directed at him or anyone else here. It radiates from her in all directions and feels more like a dare, like an open invitation to fuck around and find out.

From a corner by the house, some sort of woolly, horned creature watches the group walk past and stamps its hooves into the grass. It chuffs at them, then makes that same sound he heard when they pulled up. He supposes it's some sort of security animal; those horns look like they could do serious damage.

When they reach the gate on the other side of the fenced garden, the woman holds it open for them.

He can clearly see her face, now. Her almost ageless features are a rather androgynous mix of fine and strong, again resembling the man from earlier.

Unless they are perchance related, which is unlikely, these traits must be common among their people. Her expression is cold, unaffected yet tough, and Ben is afraid that may common among their people, too.

“Thank you,” he offers. She doesn't say anything in return, just stares. Even as Ben passes her by, he feels her eyes on him, studying. 

Just a few steps from the fence, he can see the canal Pascaline was talking about. The stones that line it are dark and tinged with violet moss, and the water ripples against the sides of three longboats.

Here we go.

-

It takes a while to get to the beginnings of a town from the house where they stashed their speeders, but these three young men that Vara enlisted are expert rowers, and Ben's sure they couldn't have made better time.

Better conversation, absolutely, as not one of them has spoken a word to them. They've only made soft, passing comments to each other in what must be the local language. A quick skim across the edge of their thoughts shows him nothing more than currents and wind patterns, so he doesn't worry about it.

He studies their looks as well as he can — the same odd sheen playing across the same long, red hair, the same high cheekbones, slim build, and light-colored eyes. They all look remarkably similar, close in resemblance to the woman at the house and the man at the consulate. They all bear the same indifference, too.

The initial brief he received said ‘human,’ and Ben wonders how true that is. He knows they haven't been thoroughly genetically tested, and he also knows they've been isolated for at least as long as the galaxy has a recorded history for this system. They very well _could_ be human, if they haven't become something different in all this time.

“Look!” K’Mondha’s voice pulls him from his reverie. She’s pointing at the water. “There’s a turtle-fox!”

“A _what_?” he asks, alarmed. His heart skips a beat, maybe three. He looks to where Vara pointed, but only sees ripples.

“A turtle-fox. The Arkani built the canals to have a whole natural ecosystem. It’s quite brilliant, actually.”

Ben looks deeper into the water while she talks, feeling out a little with the Force to get a sense of what’s underneath.

“Moss and algae grow in the canals,” she begins to explain. “Fish eat the moss and algae, and arktos eat fish, right?”

“Sure.” He can feel something thrumming, something sort of slippery darting about, but he can’t see through the darkness. It’s almost playful, but he can feel a hunter’s focus. Something in his chest flutters in response.

“But obviously, no one wants arktos in the canals, so the Arkani put turtle-foxes in the canals to eat the fish, and arkto statues up around the canals to scare the real arktos away.”

“What’s an arkto?” he asks absently, still focused on the turtle-fox thing under the water.

Suddenly, that thing in his chest _pulls_ downward and drops like a stone into his gut, and he loses his breath for a moment.

“ _That_ is an arkto.”

His whole body feels heavy, but he tightens his grip on the edge of the wooden boat and manages to turn his eyes up to where the secretary’s watery reflection is directing them.

The air comes back to him in a rush.

“Holy—”

“It’s awfully large,” Mara cuts in from beside him, squeezing his bicep hard so he can’t finish that exclamation.

“It’s true-to-size,” she smiles.

The statue is _big_ , taller than a wookiee and at least three times as heavy. But not just that, Ben considers, it’s downright vicious. If you look up the word ‘ferocious’ on the holonet, that image will return.

It doesn’t just look like it would swipe at you and shred you to ribbons — it looks like it wants to.

Forget the turtle-fox, _this_ is what made his stomach drop. Just a statue, a replica of the thing, called out loud enough through the Force to settle this dread over him like a blanket.

Its long, sharp teeth extend from jaw to jaw in its open, screaming maw. Giant claws grow from giant paws, each foreleg hanging low as if the creature doesn’t even believe it needs them. It stands on its two rear legs, leaning forward in a threat; it might at any moment drop to all fours and charge.

But it won’t.

 _It’s just a statue_ , Ben reminds himself.

It’s carved from something like that shimmering structure that stood near the woman’s house, but black as pitch. The light that filters through the clouds glosses over its surface, moving as they row closer, shifting as they pass.

The statue appears to move like a living thing, but he knows it’s just a trick.

“We don’t have to worry about those, thankfully,” K’Mondha sighs. “They don’t come anywhere near the base.”

“Good,” he mutters, and feels again for the weapon on his back. Just in case.

The rowers keep rowing, and the statue grows small. 

The canal has been widening steadily since they passed the first sparsely placed houses, and is now wide enough that all three boats could fit abreast without touching each other or the few boats docked along the walls. The houses are growing closer together, and the grass is coming up shorter and shorter.

They soon encounter some traffic — a few more slim, fair people with gleaming red hair, sparing them no more than a glance before steadfastly ignoring them. Most of them are women, and most travel with no company but the baskets in their boats.

It reminds Ben sharply of Chandrila. That traffic was also mostly women with working husbands, concerned only with their errands and not at all with anyone else.

He smiles softly to himself. Some odd things bridge odd cultures. He doesn't mind being ignored.

As they get deeper into the town, the canal crowds with more women in more boats, talking with each other across the way. Most don't seem to be very busy, perhaps just talking with friends, while a few look to be actively trading goods between their woven wicker baskets. This must be their marketplace.

The rowers swiftly weave their way through the market, slowing only as the space begins to tighten with congestion.

Some of the natives are starting to give them second glances, some are even openly staring, expressionless.

Every gaze prickles along Ben's skin, and he lets his mind graze along each of theirs for any threats. He doesn't expect anything outlandish, of course, but he isn't prepared for what he does find, either.

Hate. Loathing. Jealousy. Disgust. Fear.

He wants to pull back. All the negativity directed towards him and Mara, Luke and Pascaline, K’Mondha and even the rowers — it's sickening.

He grimaces, unable to keep up a nice face, but he can't pull his awareness from them. Perhaps he _should_ expect something outlandish, if they're all like this.

They soon come to a closely grouped cobble of buildings. There are only a few on each side of the canal, connected by a footbridge. More white stone, more slate rooftops, and storefronts that open toward the floating commonplace.

There are some people walking along the footpaths that act as a buffer between the water and the buildings, but most of the people up there seem to be vendors concerned with moving their product to the water.

The voices of the vendors and their buyers are loud here, and even though their three boats are lined up next to one another, K’Mondha still has to near a shout to be heard.

Luke and Pascaline lean in carefully from their side of her, and Ben and Mara do the same.

“This is the town!” Their secretary waves a hand in the air. “It's not much, as you can see.”

She doesn't seem bothered by the lack of privacy. Ben glances around to see if anyone's listening in, but even their own rowers are minding their own business, talking amongst themselves.

“There used to be a larger town much closer to where the base is now,” she continues dismissively with another big gesture, “but it's abandoned.”

“What happened there?” Pascaline asks, and Ben leans further in to hear her better. Mara pulls him back a little by the elbow to keep the boat right.

“Well, the Arkani _say_ the Empire was very oppressive and murdered lots of their people.”

The way she puts it sounds oddly conspiratorial.

 _The Empire_ was _oppressive,_ Ben thinks, _but what's the catch?_

“And they say that they moved out here and set up this little place to get away from all of that. But,” she pauses for clear dramatic effect, “no one has ever found any murder victims!”

That doesn't sound right, but Ben can’t find anything but truth coming from her.

“You know what we have found, though? There was a famine about thirty-five years ago, not long after the Imperial planetside settlement was made. The Arkani were growing a bad crop, and when the crop died, the animals starved, and when the animals starved,” she shrugs matter-of-factly, “a good portion of the people starved, as well.”

 _Oh_.

“It was all because of that one bad growing season. But these people are so superstitious and blame it all on the Empire and on us; they act like we're the ones who ruined the crop.”

Luke sighs solemnly, nodding. “Anyone can make a superstition out of the Empire.”

“Most people have,” Mara concurs.

Ben gives another cursory check for eavesdroppers before giving his two cents. “Do you think there's any reason for them to believe the Empire killed all those people? Besides superstition?”

The secretary shakes her head.

“From what we can tell, that event was not isolated. Something similar happened again about 15 years later, and they've had cycles like this for as long as we can dig into their history.”

“So it's just this place, then,” he settles.

“It's a rough environment.” She nods at him. “Even for us, it's difficult to keep everything up and running all the time. There's a reason the Empire kept a good portion of their operations up in the black. It's all this rain. It's oppressive.”

“Rain, oppressive,” Luke chuckles, and _yeah_ , Ben silently agrees that it is a little funny that Tatooine would be so close by.

K’Mondha gives a long-suffering grunt. “If you all stick around long enough, you'll see that this planet will choke the life out of anything.”

It sounds harsh, but Ben can't bring himself to argue yet. He saw the state of the buildings on base, the way they already look centuries old and in disrepair, when most of them were built within the last seventeen years.

And that really puts it into perspective, doesn't it? He's older than they are.

“Nothing can thrive on this planet,” she repeats. “It's a miracle these people have even survived here for so long. Before we came here, they had next to nothing. And look at them.” She gestures out to the bustling marketplace.

The people here are still trading, still talking, still throwing them cold glances every now and then, radiating a vague chill of hostility. They carry on in their own ways, similar but entirely foreign to everything Ben has known.

He thought the consulate was low-tech, but this… This is no-tech. These people, in their own loathing or fear, are far from where they ought to be.

“We've offered them so much aid,” K’Mondha’s voice is nearly a hiss, “but they won't accept it. Instead, they just want to fight, even if it means they'll starve. You see what we're working with now?”

Still eyeing the crowd, mind probing gently, Ben feels a small sense of what the arkto statue radiated.

“Let’s hurry this up and get out of here,” Ben decides.

-

“You remember when we were younger, and you found that grassrabbit with the injured leg?”

Pascaline's next strike hits its mark, striking a nerve in Ben's shoulder and making him drop his staff.

They've been at this for a couple hours now, working up a real appetite in the little covered courtyard of their apartment so they can gorge at dinner and pass out proper.

“Yeah, what of it?” He rolls his shoulder forward and back and picks the staff up off the floor, settling back into a comfortable stance.

“It got caught in a trap and it was scared. And when you rescued it, it bit you.”

He definitely remembers that, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what there is to say about a grassrabbit from ten years ago.

Pascaline isn't moving, so he strikes first. She deflects it easily and waits for him to come at her again.

“You cried when it bit you, and then you cried when your uncle told you it would need its leg cut off.”

He strikes again, she parries, and he pulls her staff up with his, spinning on his heel and rocking his weight into her. She drops the staff and yanks an arm around his neck, pulling him down with her. She's not even out of breath when she speaks again.

“You cried yet again when it was healed and set free and didn’t need you anymore.”

“I cried a lot,” he rasps. “So what?”

He tries to roll, but Pascaline tightens her hold.

“You were so concerned about doing what you _thought_ would make that grassrabbit happy, that you didn't think about what would _actually_ make things better for it.”

Her grip is so tight that he can barely get the words out now. “What's your point? _Yield_.”

She lets go, and he flops over onto his stomach, letting the training mat cool him off.

“My point is that you look like you're going to cry again, Ben.”

He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the mat. He doesn't want to think about all that right now.

“You’ve always been very passionate, and it’s admirable. You really are an astounding person, Ben,” she sighs.

He knows there’s a ‘ _but’_ waiting for him. When she doesn’t speak for a minute, he looks up at her. She looks worried in her own understated way.

“But,” she emphasizes, “we can all see when that passion starts to take its toll on you. Mara told me this is part of your Trial, and I know I can’t really help you, but please, Ben, don't let yourself get caught up in thoughts and feelings. Stay objective. Let the Force guide you.”

He watches as she stands up and picks up the two staffs. She holds one out to him.

“Let’s finish this.”

-

That night, far from home, Ben doesn’t sleep at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe anyone has made it this far, lmao. I don't know if introspective political sci-fi coming-of-age romances have much of an audience, but if you're into it, I'm thrilled!!
> 
> I love love love reading every comment, so please tell me what you like! What do you want more of? What questions do you want answered? Even if you don't really think you have anything to say, I'd love to hear it! (Even one-word comments like "cool" are treasured!) All of that stuff gives me a goal and makes me write faster (which I'll need to start doing, because this thing is going to be longer than I thought AND I'm starting my four-day-a-week volunteering next week).
> 
> you can also talk to me on [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com)


	5. nu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this chapter is even longer and even worse than the last one.
> 
>  
> 
> [Art!](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/179640002594/in-the-hearts-of-men-benarmitage-wip-chapter)

“You really ought to be wearing gloves, _makskáro_.”

“I told you, it's nothing.”

Armitage stabs deep into the mud, digging his spade under wiry roots and pulling out another flashy weed.

His hand was scraped the other day when some idiot ran into him and knocked him over. It's only just healed, dry scabs flaking off to reveal fresh pink skin. The spade's wooden handle has deepened it to the purplish shade of thin skin over blood.

His mother hums, disbelieving, and goes back into the house.

In truth, he knows he'll have to wash and bandage his hand again when he finishes weeding the garden. The dull ache gave way to a stinging and slight burn a few minutes in, but it will fade into the drone of the mindless work soon enough.

He stabs at another weed and pulls it, adding it to the growing collection in the basket at his side.

 _If only people were this easy to remove_ , he thinks snidely, yanking weed after weed and imagining each one to be one of the soldiers infesting this place. He grabs them by the neck, ripping them up and tossing them out one by one until the section is done.

When he looks out at the rest of the garden and sees yet more weeds sprouted up in between the good crop, he finds himself wishing for a better, more permanent solution. 

He sits back on his heels and glares.

They're not _bad_ , to be fair. They're subject to nature. They don't choose where to grow, they just pop up from seeds whenever the rain allows. They don't _try_ to kill the plants around them, they just do.

To stop them entirely, one would have to cut off the source; not just taking them out by the root, but cutting off their food, their sunlight, their water to keep them from growing in the first place.

One would have to stop nature itself.

Belatedly, he realizes the thought is grossly blasphemous and offers a quick repentance. He may not be overly reverent of _Saír_ , the earth, but he's not stupid. _Never scorn the keeper of the fields you reap_ , and all that.

Besides, these plants grow from the same soil and sunlight and water as all the good ones, and that very well can't be changed. Nor should it, either, as they're essentially free food for Síbil.

The real shame is that the soldiers and their war can't simply be fed to Síbil.

He shuffles over to the next plot and digs his spade in once more.

When he spoke to Gwin at the consulate, the old man said that nothing could be changed. The soldiers were sent here on some high order, and no one here had any say in it at all.

When he asked why no one had informed him, Gwin just shrugged and said, _“Need to know.”_

Remembering that useless man's nonchalance gets his blood boiling, and he throws more force behind the spade with each thrust.

 _Need to know._ As if Armitage or his family or anyone else out here didn't need to know.

As if they didn't live here, too.

As if they weren't here first.

Every damn time he starts to think those people are on his side, accepting him, they do something like this. They leave him in the dark. They make him look like a fool. How is he supposed to fit in when no one offers a place for him?

He hopes it'll change with the new Ambassadors, that they'll finally make a difference in the culture beyond policy, but he can't believe it. He just keeps stabbing hard into the earth and digging out weeds one at a time.

When he's finished the plot, he moves to the next and keeps digging.

“Get up.”

His heart jumps, and he drops the spade to clutch at his chest. He hadn't even heard his mother come back out.

“I'm still working,” he grits out, looking up at her through his lashes.

She's already crouching down in front of him and pulling his hand forward to study it.

It's his dominant one, the one he was using to wield the spade. The whole palm is smeared with blood and dirt. He can barely feel it; it went numb a while ago.

“Get up,” she commands again. “We're going to the well to fix this, and then I'll finish weeding the garden on my own.”

“I can finish it myself,” he insists as she pulls him to his feet, though he knows there's no use in fighting her. “Just bandage it, and then—”

“And then you can go up to see the _éden_ like you're supposed to,” she finishes for him, dragging him out of the garden and down the worn path to the well. “I can finish the garden without a problem. If you wait any longer, it'll be dark when you get back.”

It’s an exaggeration, but she's right. He’s wasted a good part of the morning already, and he ought to leave soon if he wants to get her order from the butcher.

When they reach the well, he takes a seat in the soft, tall grass in front of a small washbasin and waits for his mother to fetch the bucket. She does so swiftly and carries it over to fill the basin.

When the bucket is back in the well, she sits across from him and takes his hand again, producing a square of cloth from her pocket.

Studiously, she wipes as much of the grit from his hand as she can before dipping it down into the shallow pool to be rinsed. She then lifts it back up in front of her face and swipes at it some more.

Seemingly satisfied, she tosses the cloth into the grass and lowers his hand back into the water, using her fingers to gently rub away the remaining grime.

Her hands feel soft against his, which is strange. They were always rough and calloused when he was young. He hurt himself a lot back then, before he let the work on base take up so much of his time, and she spent many hours fixing him back up with her hard-working hands.

He takes in her face and sees she's changed in many other ways, too. The finest of lines have crept onto her face and nestled themselves next to her eyes. Some of hair has slowly faded to a dull gold. She no longer has the same energy she once did; she's quiet, and long gone are the days when she would run after him, chasing him through the fields for fun and laughing all the way.

Armitage can't really remember the last time he saw her laugh in earnest, but he thinks she would still have been quite young. It must have been before he started work, before he was gone nearly every day, working in the same place she left years and years ago.

She hates that place, the base. She hated it when the Empire was there, she hates it now that the New Republic is there. She once said the only good that came out of it was him, and if she had never met his father, she would have taken to the sea and become a siren and never looked back at what the _fostáme_ had done.

And he imagines she would have bridged that gap between man and the sea better than anyone before her. She has the voice for it, and she is the wildest, freest soul he's ever met, even as reserved as she is now. She's a tempest, truly a being born of _Marlá_ , the ocean, trapped inside a human form.

He can't shake the feeling that he's part of why she's trapped. His birth, his childhood, and now his work — they all hold her here with a vice-like grip on her humanity. Many, many times, he's considered quitting his work on base, but she always insists that she wants him to choose what's best for himself. Her selflessness with him only exacerbates his sense of guilt.

If all goes well with the new Ambassadors, he might be able to alleviate her burden. He might work less and stay at home more, might make life so steady that she could leave, might let her be happy. He'll take this up with the _éden_ , ask her to push for more.

“What’s on your mind?” Her voice pulls his speculative gaze from their joined hands.

“The trip up to the _éden_ ,” he half-lies.

-

The market is rather quiet as he passes through, as if the entire town's breath is held in anticipation of the coming rain. He doesn't come out this way very often, spending so much of his time on base. The people there aren't very good at reading the weather. They dress for rain all the time, then go indoors when it hits. He forgets sometimes how easily this town moves with nature instead of against it. 

The butcher's door is standing open as he approaches, and he finds a short line of just two women waiting to be served. He stands behind them, not trying to eavesdrop as they talk softly with one another, but listening all the same.

“I was just talking with Kémerit, and he said they were here the day before last.” 

“The day before last?”

“ _Aí_ , the day before last, around midday. They all came into the market but didn't buy anything. They just talked and looked around and left. Didn't say a word to anyone, either.”

“What do you think they were up to?”

“Well, I can't claim to know — no one had ever seen them before — but you’ve heard about what they're all doing down there, haven't you?”

She shakes her head, “I haven't.”

The first woman hums in disapproval. “The first _fostáme_ are trying to come back.”

“They've been saying that since you were a girl.”

“ _Aí_ , but they mean it this time. Kálesja's son, Sigmîr, said they've just brought in scores of men. That’s what those people he brought here to town were talking about.”

“Is he still doing favors for them?”

“ _Aí_.”

The second woman, the older one, turns and gives Armitage an appraising look. She looks as though she's about to address him, but instead turns back to her conversation.

“It’s wrong to spend time with those people like that, to work for them instead of against them,” she says, not taking her tone down at all. “Whatever happens, he's only going to make it worse for himself.”

“Worse for himself or worse for us?”

“You know what I mean.”

The other woman doesn't say anything more, just nods.

Armitage runs his fingers through the ends of his hair self-consciously. It's no secret that he works on base or that his father was one of _them_ , but the way the older woman looked at him makes his chest itch with a nagging insecurity.

It's as if she could see it on him, his otherness displayed more plainly than the red of his hair. 

It really shouldn't bother him this much.

—

Far to the east of town, nearly an hour’s walk along the rocky foothills that separate the low plains from the blooming highlands, stands the stone statue of a young woman. Her face is turned up to _Ámoset_ ’s highest peak, and her back shows the head of the trail that leads to _Saír_ ’s Den.

This is where the _éden_ lives, and as Armitage turns down the trail to see her and her flock, he can’t help but remember all the other times he’s made this trip.

He came here for a few weeks when he was still small but at that age where everyone was expected to hike to the Den alone. After serving the _éden_ , each would be given their _sjuosaísti_ , a second name.

He came again when he was just a little older and searching for someone to relate to. He had found himself an outsider to his own people, and the _éden_ seemed like a good way to connect. It didn’t work.

When he was old enough that the consulate workers on base offered to find him a job — sixteen of their years — and rid him of the traditional obligation of living out at sea, he had nightmares for weeks. The _éden_ negotiated heavily for him and helped him reconcile his new life with his life at home.

He’s only ever made a small handful of visits with the gods in mind; his mother didn’t raise him with the same level of fear as other women did with their children.

She’s always called that fear a weakness, saying that he should live alongside the gods and use their powers to his advantage, but never rely on them or waste his time on worship. After all, they live for themselves and not anyone else, and so should he. It’s certainly a nihilistic view that others do not appreciate, but not one that’s ever done them wrong.

And now he’s back on this path, this time on business not his own, no matter how oddly personal it feels.

He shakes off that feeling as he approaches the Den’s entrance. This isn’t about him. It’s about the new Ambassadors and bringing the _éden_ down to meet them. It’s about yet another effort to bridge the gap that divides the two peoples.

The mouth of the cave is small, hidden from view until Armitage is almost on top of it. He slips inside quickly, then stops for a moment to breathe.

The climb is slow-going and subtle, hiding that the Den is indeed nestles high up, just above the foothills, where the air is thin. Lightning strikes _Ámoset_ frequently, leaving the air dry, acrid and scorched. Those that breathe ocean air, as Armitage does, will feel that lightning in their lungs. 

Once he’s caught his breath, Armitage treads deeper into the cave, through the large antechamber and into a tighter passage. If he did not know from experience that this cave led to the _éden_ , the darkness would have forced him back outside. Instead, he trudges deeper, following the wall with his hand.

After perhaps a minute of blindness, the passage curves sharply to the right and spills out into an empty, brightly-lit chamber — _Saír_ 's Den.

Fire lines the walls, and daylight drops in through natural vents, banishing the damp and dark atmosphere of the rest of the cave. The far wall, where the Den blends with the _éden_ 's earthen home, is scrubbed smooth and set with wooden doors.

He crosses the chamber, opening the center door and entering the abbey that comprises the majority of the Den.

Its smooth walls are bare but for the lit sconces, and the main hall is filled with the same daylight. A small group of a older children, clearly here to earn their _sjuosaíste_ , mill about, performing their various jobs.

Armitage takes a seat on one of the many stone benches that line the nearly silent hall and waits.

-

A sweet, hazy smell — mulled milk, he registers faintly — rouses Armitage from a light doze. He opens his bleary eyes to see a steaming glass cup in his face, held out by a young woman in violet robes — one of the _médene_ , disciples of the _éden_.

“Here,” she says with a soft smile, “drink. She will be out soon.”

He accepts the cup greedily, nearly forgetting to thank her. The capras kept in the high valley just outside the Den eat well, and their milk is all the sweeter for it. The heady spices added to it are warming and fragrant and tingle on his lips at the first sip.

The young woman smiles again and ducks quietly out of the abbey's main hall, leaving Armitage to sip slowly at his hot drink until the _éden_ reveals herself.

He’s down to the bottom of his drink when she shows, heavy robes swaying in time with her steps. She was already well into her age when Armitage first came to her, and he can’t help but notice it more now.

It’s not stiff movements or lines in her face that gives it away, but the full mane, solid gold in hue, that rests along her back. She’s still not as old as his grandmother, but her disposition reflects something ageless in her.

She sits down next to him without ceremony.

“It’s rare of you to make this long journey,” she greets with a gentle smile. “How are things working out for you on base?”

“Fair,” he considers. “More than fair, perhaps. That’s what I came here to talk to you about, actually. There’s—”

She lifts a hand to interrupt.

“We can talk about that matter later.” She brings her hand down to rest on his shoulder, drawing his attention in to her. “I’d like to know how _you_ are doing.”

“Well, I’m doing fine.” He shrugs. That's not what he came here to talk about, but he’s not going to rush the _éden_.

“Just fine?” she asks.

“I mean, it’s not outstandingly great,” he allows. It's certainly not bad.

“Why not?”

“It’s just normal.” He shrugs again, cradling the empty glass in his lap. What does she expect him to say?

“And normal is not great?”

“Look,” he huffs, slightly exasperated. “I appreciate how good things are, don’t get me wrong—”

“No, don’t get me wrong.” The _éden_ presses him an unreadable look. “I’m simply wondering what could make your life great.”

“I… I don’t understand.” He's already got what he needs, hasn't he?

“Well, what do you want out of life that you don’t already have?”

“Oh, um…”

She interrupts him again before anything comes to mind.

“Don’t think about it too hard. Start with what brought you here.”

“You need to meet—”

“No.”

Armitage suppresses another huff.

“What brought _you_ here?” she implores, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Why you, specifically?”

Coming from the _éden_ , he knows the question must have layers to it, but he can't possibly imagine what all they would be. He opts for the simplest.

“I suppose I was the only one around to be asked,” he answers. Vara had said she just saw him passing by when she asked. There must not have been anyone else there that she could have asked.

“And why were you around?”

“I was just passing through the area when I was asked to come here.”

“But I’m sure there are others who pass through the area, people with business there. Why you?” she asks again.

She makes a fair point, and the answer to all these questions becomes somewhat obvious. If Vara asked him, then there must not have been any of her _Marlánysîl_ workers present at the time. He doesn't even work there, she just asked him because… 

“Because I’m presumed to know you, I suppose?” 

“I think that’s a good start,” the _éden_ nods decisively. “I have something I’d like you to see. Then we can discuss the matter you _think_ you came here for.”

She rises from the bench and starts off down the hallway she came from, not waiting a second for Armitage. He jumps up after her, trotting to catch up.

After a few twists and turns, when Armitage feels almost certainly lost in the labyrinth, the _éden_ stops in front of an inconspicuous curtained doorway; the younghall's kitchen.

He vaguely remembers it from the few weeks he spent here so long ago. This is where he worked to earn his _sjuósaísti_.

“Go on,” she urges him, and he pushes through into the room.

It's smaller than he remembers, its tighter walls and lower ceiling making him feel unusually large. A lit oven casts about a warmth and a glow, and the _éden_ takes a taper from the fire to light a wall sconce.

Armitage takes a seat at the table in the center. It looks to be the same one that sat here all those years ago, bearing the same little chip of black glass on the edge from a broken knife. There are no new scars. The wood's been treated well.

Busying herself with some small glass pots by the oven, the _éden_ speaks again, bringing him back to their conversation.

“Now, you said you were presumed to know me,” she says with a sparse glance over her shoulder. “I take that to mean that it was one of those folk on base. Their course of thought was that because you are one of us, you would know me and live close enough to me to come here without inconvenience. That's what you believe happened?”

“…Yes,” he answers after a moment. Vara didn't mind asking any passing redhead to do her a favor.

“And that stood out to you because you don’t agree with it? You don't see yourself as _Marlánysîl_ the way she does?” she calls back, pulling something hot from the oven and setting it on the counter.

He struggles to put anything into words, offering a few stutters before he can gather a comprehensive thought.

“It's not that I don't see myself as _Marlánysîl_ ,” he explains, “just that it isn't all I am, as they seem to see it.”

“I agree with you.” She turns around to look him in the face, eyes alight with something untamed. “And I think you’re right on both fronts, at least for the most part.”

“Oh.” That's a better reaction than he expected. Most would just scold him for saying something so rash, but… “Wait— _both_ fronts?”

“That they see you as one of us, and that you are _not_ one of us.”

The frankness throws him off. Before he can say anything, _think_ anything, she gestures to the workcounter at her back.

“I want to show you something. Come up here.”

He rises and meets her at the counter where three pots are placed in a neat row. The one in the middle is steaming. It must have just been pulled from the oven.

“What am I making here?” she asks, gaze flickering over his face, watching him watch the pots.

The pot on the left looks to be holding fresh milk, still foamy and pale, and the pot on the right holds a bold blend of spices. The steaming center pot looks and smells like the same drink he just had. 

“Mulled milk.”

“Why do you call it that?” she quizzes immediately.

“Because that's what it is.”

She gives him a small smile and turns her face down to the glass pots.

“Of these two pots,” she points to the pots on the left and right, “only one holds milk. Why would you call their combination milk?”

She points to the center pot, still hot and fragrant and deep in color. The spurgrass grounds swirl on the surface in time with the steam swirling up.

“Why not call it spurgrass and tree sap and stiffleaf and milk? Or steeped spurgrass and tree sap and stiffleaf?”

He shrugs, eyes still caught on the slow dance of the dark grounds. 

“That's just the word for it.”

“That's just the word you’ve been _taught_ ,” she corrects. “Just because we call it milk doesn't mean it's only milk. Compare this drink with the fresh milk; are they the same?”

He looks at the two. One is light and one is dark, cold and hot, still and swirling.

“No.”

“And is it the same as the spices in this pot?”

Smooth and tacky, dark and darker, sweet and burning.

“No.”

“But it is spurgrass and tree sap and stiffleaf and milk in that pot, correct?”

“Yes, but I really don't think anyone would call it that,” he huffs, shaking his head at the idea of calling the mulled milk by every ingredient. “It's too much.”

“Whatever we call it, the contents will be the same. Just as the people on base see you as one of us, and most of us see you as one of them.”

He looks up at her. She's still watching him closely, pale eyes boring into him.

He starts to wonder if she means that perhaps _he_ is too much, as well. Maybe others see him as one or the other because his heritage is inconvenient, because _he_ is inconvenient.

That can't possibly be what she's trying to say; the _éden_ always speaks in layers.

“I don't think it was an accident that you were sent here,” she says pointedly. “What are you here for?”

To the proper matter, finally.

“There were new emissaries — Ambassadors, actually,” he corrects, “sent to the base, and they would like to meet you before _Kjára_.”

“New Ambassadors?” she smiles.

“Four of them,” he confirms with a nod. “Specialists, supposedly. I was told they were sent from higher positions of power in their society. You probably know more about that than I do…,” he defers.

She nods, still smiling, but says nothing. He continues on under her heavy focus.

“The base is also preparing for war. They've got more people living there now, and I overhead people in town talking about it. They aren't happy.”

“Sounds like I'll need help, then,” the _éden_ muses. “Someone strong and supportive who can temper the _fostáme_.”

Armitage can't imagine that any of their people would be willing to step up like that, but he nods in agreement. With things going the way they are, they'll need to be more engaging.

“Even with that, it seems as though we might finally be of higher priority to them now. If they'll listen, which I don't doubt they will—”

“I want you at the meeting.”

“What?” He couldn't have heard that correctly.

“I want you there when the Ambassadors and I meet.” She's still smiling.

“But why?” he asks, entirely puzzled. “I don't work at the consulate. I don't know anything about that stuff.” He's not even supposed to be here.

“Is it not obvious to you?” 

“Apparently not.”

“You would not be bringing this to me if it weren't important and did not pertain to you,” she insists, her gaze hardening.

He wouldn't be here if he hadn't been asked. He repairs machines, not relationships.

“Don't you remember all the other times you've been here?” she implores. “Every one of those those times, we've found ourselves working through the same issue — who you are, where you belong.”

“And what, you think I ought to be an emissary? Because I'm both?” He glances back at the pots.

“Yes.”

“I can't do that.” He shakes his head. 

“Why not?”

“I’m not— I don't…” He can't put it into words, just shakes his head again. This isn't something he can do.

“Armitage,” she placates, placing a hand on his shoulder. He keeps his eyes trained on the pots. “I was only your age when the _fostáme_ first came here, and even younger when I became the _éden_.”

“You were elected,” he argues. “The _médene_ knew you were worthy.” 

“I was elected too young. I didn't know _they_ would come, and I certainly didn't know how to handle it. I'm not one of them, nor will I ever be.”

No. He knows what she's saying, and his eyes snap to hers.

“I'm not one of them, either,” he says, leaving no room for argument, but she pushes on anyway.

“It's in you and it's especially strong from all the time you spend with them.”

“They will never see me that way.”

“They could.”

“No, they can't! Have you ever—”

“Do we not still call the milk with spices ‘milk,’ despite its many ingredients?” she retorts, lending a hand to pots behind them.

He doesn't say anything in return. He refuses to let her box him in like this.

She turns and picks up a spoon, stirring the pot of mulled milk and kicking its spices back up to the surface. They whirl around faster than before, and a new wisp of steam floats up.

“Your mother gave you something powerful when she raised you the way she did,” says the _éden_ after a few silent moments of steady stirring. “She gave you pieces of both peoples, something most of us lack.”

“And something most of you don't want,” he retorts. “You all will only ever see me as one of them. I'm both, but I'm also neither.”

“That’s true, and you bring me to my next point. Your mother gave you a choice, Armitage.” She pulls a clean cup from the cupboard above, fills it with the hot drink and holds it out to him. “She did not give you everything. You cannot have everything.”

He doesn't take it.

“No.”

She sets the cup down next to him. The grounds are speckled in foam from being poured. The milk and spices are thoroughly mixed; they can't be separated.

“There is no way to live two lives.”

“I don't want to live two lives.” His voice nears a shout. The walls soak up the sound without an echo, and the ensuing silence is jarring. He lowers his tone to a whisper. “I want to live my own.”

“You don't have to help negotiations,” the _éden_ concedes softly. “You can keep working on base where no one understands you and then coming home to where no one understands you.”

For all the hard reality she speaks of, her eyes are soft and somewhere close to empathic, even if not entirely understanding.

“And then,” she continues yet more softly, “you will eventually come to a point where the choice is made for you, and it will hurt.”

The _éden_ is not wrong, Armitage must admit. She is wise. She is the _éden_ for a reason. He knows he has an advantage that others lack.

“Or you can choose a direction to grow in now and correct those misunderstandings.”

But to sacrifice half his identify? Publicly align himself with one side that doesn't even see him for what he is? Even if it does good… 

“I can't. I can't do that.”

“You don't need to different contents to carry a different name, Armitage.” She looks pointedly at his full cup.

If that milk is not used, not _consumed_ , it'll be thrown out. He takes a long drink, and the irony tastes bittersweet on his tongue.

“I'd like to see you at the Cove, two mornings from now. Is that all?”

He bites his lip.

“There is… one more thing.”

-

By the time the boat is tethered, Síbil is fed, and the shanks are in the pot to stew, Armitage feels almost too exhausted to function.

It's in part due to the trek, which was long and somewhat more physically demanding than how he spends most of his time, but mostly because of his conversation with the _éden_.

He had not expected things to go the way they had, for the _éden_ to ask such a thing of him. He had thought he would just go into the Den, tell the _éden_ about the meeting and leave, washing his hands clean of it.

Sure, he wanted good relations as much as the next person, perhaps even more, but he simply had no place in it. What would his people out here, _at home_ , think of him?

His people already widely consider him to be what the Republicans would call a _sellout_ , working on the base, speaking their language. Those things seem to matter more to them than his lineage does.

Admittedly, the issue of his parentage — his father, specifically — was nearly erased by his mother's hand. She raised him mostly off the base and away from his father's people, maintaining a careful distance between them.

There are some on base who allege to have _Marlánysîl_ fathers — for all the good their childhoods spent on base have done for their relations with this side. They are not considered half as _Marlánysîl_ as Armitage is, even if their blood is true.

And so for all the fortune, privilege and heritage his mother had afforded him by staying connected with their people — against her personal desires —, he could not throw it all away by engaging so plainly in what their people see as treachery, oppression and abuse.

It was bad enough already that he engaged with them at all.

On the way back from the Den, when the butcher gave him his order, he hardly looked at Armitage and spoke only a single word. That was only a single glance of the widening gap that is so normal in Armitage's experience; it has only been steadily spreading through the duration of his work on base.

He's just thankful he still has a place at the opening and closing of _Kjára_. He owes it to his mother to keep up his relationship with their people.

Part of him can kind of understand the _éden_ 's earlier point. That relationship is strained, and he should make something out of it while he can — for the good. But that's not his job; there's a reason he doesn't serve as part of the _médene_.

Armitage swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, rubbing at it a little to alleviate the tension. All this thinking is messing with his head.

It's just all too much, he thinks as he leans back against the counter and sighs deeply.

“What's troubling you?” His mother, standing in the doorway with crossed arms and looking solemn as ever, frowns deeply at him. He doesn't know how long she's been standing there, but she's already got her hair pulled back for cooking.

He just shakes his head. The _éden_ 's words are not an issue he wishes to take up with his mother.

“Alright,” she settles with a firm nod, but she doesn't entirely let go. Her mouth tightens as she tries to get a read on him, eyes like teeth grazing over his form.

She's always been respectful of privacy, but never one to condone keeping secrets. It's an odd balance, or perhaps a difficult one, with her being the only judge over what constitutes a private matter or a secret one. Her scrutinizing gaze is her only tool of examination.

Armitage doesn't flinch or squirm under it. He has nothing to hide, only an internal sense of being stretched too thin that he would like to be left well enough alone.

What does make him squirm, though, is when her gaze turns from scrutinizing back to the subtle sadness that has grown too typical as of late.

With the guilt from earlier waking up to gnaw at him again, he hurries out of the kitchen before she can say anything.

“I'm going to find grandmother,” is the only excuse he can think of. He doesn't hear her call after him.

Knowing she's likely to be found in one of only two places, Armitage’s search ends rather quickly in the workroom.

There's plenty of lighting available in this room — two windows and a half-dozen lamps line the wall — but his grandmother has always favored hunching over her weaving projects by light of a single lamp on the floor in front of her.

Today is no different than any other day, and so he finds her with that single lamp, handweaving something loose and large. It looks much simpler than usual tapestries.

She doesn't seem to notice him enter, so he breaks the silence.

“Do you need any help?” he asks. It would be good for him to get his mind off things — especially good, actually, as he'll be carrying on as normal and those _things_ he's been thinking about won't affect him.

His grandmother looks up at him carefully, hands still working deftly on the thinly woven rope, twisting and looping it around itself.

“No,” she says matter-of-factly, “but if you want to pick up that netting over there and finish it for me, you may try.” She tilts her head over at a pile of the same soft, thin rope sitting in the corner of the room.

Armitage grabs the bundle and brings it over to where his grandmother is already seated in front of her lamp. He sits opposite her and places the unfinished net on the floor in front of him in the same manner she has hers set up.

“This net will go out to sea,” she says once he's gotten his fingers into it. “Do you remember what I taught you about fishermen's nets?”

“Yes,” Armitage answers, studying the understated grace of his grandmother's weave.

The water, salt and cold air will take their toll on the net quickly, and the rope that's soft in his hands now will weather only one dip in the ocean before turning stiff. Unless it's used constantly, the net would need to be dried and beaten every day to retain its proper shape and remain strong enough to catch the toughest beasts without breaking.

But the fishermen don't bother with all that maintenance, so it's the weaver's job to string the rope together just right so the shape doesn't change and then treat it meticulously in a good conditioner to keep it supple.

“Good,” she nods. She doesn't like to talk more than necessary. 

She first sat Armitage down and began teaching him her craft when he was still young, before his ever mother let him frequent the base and before he had even earned his _sjousaísti_. It's a difficult art, but very useful to know if one is all but required to spend most of his life out at sea. The net needs more care than even the finest tapestries, and the intricacies are so particular that no loom can hold it.

He takes a few minutes just to follow each length of rope as it twists and barrels against itself to form the rings of gutting that make up the majority of the net's carefully shaped pocket. He must continue the pattern exactly, down to the same slack and tightness in each loop and pull, or risk ruining the integrity of the net.

When he has a feel for it, he picks up the loose ends and begins stringing them through, pulling them tight against the heavy leather guides and gently wrapping them around the next ring of rope.

He doesn't tie any knots; breaks in the rope are just holes waiting to tear through the net. When it's finished, its only knot will be in the sidewall where it attaches to the fishermen's various tools.

He's a few loops in, fingers holding the ropes tightly so they won't slip, when he loses his place. He tracks back along his work. Something's not quite right with the weave, but every twist looks the same. He takes it back a few steps to get back on track.

There. He looped the rope over itself instead of under itself.

He tangles his fingers back into the rope and begins again, narrating the process to himself.

_Fold over, twist back, loop under, pull down, back in, twist back, loop over, fold over, twist back, loop under, pull down, back in, twist back, loop over..._

After enough repetitions to complete a ring, his scraped hand is aching again. He quickly tightens his bandage and then examines his work on the netting.

The more obvious pattern is correct, but the overall weave is too tight to add any of the barrelling it'll need later. It's too intricate to go through and haphazardly loosen up as each loop varies in load, so he'll have to completely redo the ring.

He curses under his breath and starts pulling the rope loose to do it all over again. It's been too long since he last joined his grandmother in her weaving. Spending all his time at work with metals and tools, he's lost most of his skill with rope. He starts again, more focused this time.

_Fold over, twist back, loop under, pull down, back in, twist back, loop over..._

This time, when he finishes the ring and checks it, it's very uneven. The tight loops around the leather are too tight, and the folds linking the rings are all different lengths.

He undoes it and starts again with aching fingers and a throbbing palm.

“Stop that.”

His grandmother's harsh tone startles him into letting go of the net, but his fingers are nearly too stiff to move, and the netting remains stuck on them.

“You're going to ruin the rest of it if you keep pulling it apart like that,” she chastises, face stern.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, slowly untangling his fingers from the twisted mess. “I'm out of practice, obviously. I'll work some on my own—”

“Don't bother,” she interrupts with a shake of her head.

“No, I can—”

“Don't bother,” she says again with more force, still looking down at her own net.

Hands finally free, he puts the unfinished net back on the floor in front of the lamp.

“Okay,” is all he says, a little confused at her shortness. She had said she didn't need help and even invited him to join, so he hadn't thought he was wasting her time.

Looking up at him from her own beautifully braided rope, she answers his unspoken question.

“Stick to your own craft, Armitage,” she frowns. “You're better suited for it.”

“My own craft?” he asks. “At the shop?”

She nods and continues, “that work you that the _fostáme_ pay you for. You're closer to them and better at their crafts than you are at ours. You should stop trying and failing at this, as it's clearly not something you were made for.”

Oh.

Armitage draws in a slow breath and chews on his bottom lip. He's not sure what to say to that. A heat flushes over his skin.

He's loathe to admit it, but the rejection burns.

“Do you think…,” he tries, but isn't sure how to finish the question. Does she think he's a disgrace? Does she think he should just leave and join with the _fostáme_? Does she think he's not really _Marlánysîl_?

He takes a steadying breath, then yet another, and asks a simple question.

“Do you think I can do this?”

His grandmother raises an eyebrow. “No.”

“Not at all?”

“Not in any meaningful way,” she scoffs.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, incredulous. It's just weaving. Of course, it's also much more than just weaving, but he doesn't want to see it that way.

She sighs wearily, and he can feel it before she says it.

“You don't have the soul for it. You are one of them at heart.”

In other words, _you are not one of us_. Of course.

She's been a steady force of disapproval his whole life, but her words still sting sharply like a longwhip striking his back.

This is certainly not what he thought he was walking into when he left the solemn shadow of his mother, but he doesn't have the energy to argue with it.

She fixes him with a hard look, the soft light of the lamp settling deep shadows into the creases of her face and exaggerating her look into something severe.

“This,” she says, lifting the netting in her hands for him to see, “is more than just a net, Armitage. This is food we eat, the fires we burn, the gift of life on this wild land. We need this; the _fostáme_ do not. That is why _Marlá_ does not work through you to craft a net like this, and you struggle. You have those men that came from above. You have their gifts.

“Leave that for me to work on,” she gestures to his pile of rope, “and go. It's about dinner time, anyway.”

-

The rain is coming down again when Armitage wakes the next morning. The sky is already light, but there's no movement to be heard in the house. It must be very early. He briefly considers trying to go back to sleep, but his mind is buzzing too fast, and he knows there's no hope. He rises, stretches out his sore muscles and gets dressed to leave. There's no point in sitting in this house and doing nothing, so he'll just have to head in to work early.

He's expecting the base to be dark and nearly silent when he gets there, but when the night guards open the gate for him and he gets down the first block, he see that isn't quite the case.

A light is on upstairs in the consulate. He had been planning to simply go to work early, but if the door to the consulate is unlocked already…

Armitage figures he might as well slip in and leave a note now. Otherwise, he'd have to return later and deal with someone in person — perhaps even Gwin again.

He goes up the steps and tries the door. It opens without a hitch, and he closes it behind him. The main lobby downstairs is mostly dark, illuminated only by the dull light filtering in through the half-covered windows. He doesn't want to disturb whoever is working upstairs, so he leaves the light off and creeps quietly across the room to the main desk.

His notebook is in the shop, but there must be some paper or something here — knows he's seen it. He searches across the surface, but doesn't see anything.

“What are you doing?”

Armitage jumps back from the desk like it's on fire, dropping his bag to the floor in surprise. He curses inwardly for letting himself get spooked by the worker upstairs, then turns to face him, defense on his lips.

“It's not what it looks like…,” he starts, but he suddenly can't find the rest of his words.

At the top of the stairs stands the great silhouette of that that brute who ran into him a few days past. His face is half cast in shadow from the light pouring in from one of the offices, but Armitage would recognize the man anywhere.

He struggles to call someone with such a young face anything but a boy. The man definitely looks younger than Armitage, but his height and the breadth of his shoulders speak to his growing adulthood.

“What does it look like?” he asks intently. His stare is unsettling, and his cadence is stilted.

“You know very well what it looks like,” Armitage replies, spine straight. He steels himself against the unwanted presence, digging his fingers into his healing hand.

Someone with red hair, alone in a dark room they don't normally have access to; it's obvious, but Armitage won't say it aloud. The last thing he needs is someone using his words against him in a tribunal.

The man stares at him just long enough that some of his resolve withers. His next question draws an answer out of him before he can think about it.

“Who are you?”

“Armitage.” 

“That's an Imperial name,” the man observes. “I’ve spoken with some Arkani people—”

“ _Marlánysîl_ ,” he corrects automatically, then snaps his mouth shut and balls his hands into fists. No more talking until he's on equal footing.

“What was that?”

Again, the words seem to spill out of his mouth.

“ _Marlánysîl_ , that's what we're called. We are not arktos, and we are not ‘Arkani.’” He bites his lip to shut himself up.

“Oh.” The man seems more shocked than he would call normal, almost upset like a bad caricature. “In that case, I expected you to have a name like that, like your people.”

He probably can’t even pronounce ‘ _Marlánysîl_.’

“My father was Imperial,” he explains defensively, chin high, when the man’s gaze starts to feel more like an examination.

“I can tell,” he says, and then before Armitage can wonder how, “I’ve met a lot of Imperials.”

The unsettling eye contact is broken when the man descends the stairs, tucking something into the folds of his robes. His footsteps are lighter than Armitage previously thought him capable of.

Armitage looks up at the light still on upstairs. Someone else must still be up there, or else the man left it on by mistake. 

“It'll turn itself off,” the man dismisses, or tries to. His tone is too focused, too projecting.

He didn't think this old building had that sort of luxury. Everyone here complains about it. Perhaps they've made some changes without his notice; he hasn’t spent much time here recently.

“Now, what are you doing here?” the man asks, squaring his shoulders. It doesn't really make him look that tough, but then he steps in front of the door, blocking the only exit much like he did as Armitage was trying to leave that day they met.

“I'm looking for paper,” he admits slowly, of his own volition this time. “But not to steal. I mean to leave a note, it concerns business with the new Ambassadors.”

“You've got good timing.” The man musters a shallow smile. It doesn't reach anywhere past his weirdly large mouth, not even his cheeks.

 _How unfortunate_ , Armitage thinks as he watches the almost-smile fade as quickly as it had appeared, _to have such awkwardness in both looks and disposition_.

“I am one of the new Ambassadors.”

“Oh?” he chokes. Didn't his grandmother always say that those who lack in one way are gifted in another?

The man —Ambassador — nods.

So that's who ran into him so rudely, and who Armitage also ran into so rudely, and apparently who just found him in a compromising position in a building he's not necessarily supposed to be in.

It makes sense, though. His presence at the consulate, knowing Imperials… He banishes that last thought before it forms and shakes himself back to the business at hand.

“There's a meeting,” he blurts, and he knows he could have said that a lot better. He tries again. “The _éden_ , our leader — sort of — our representative, really, has agreed to meet with you.” As if _that_ were ever really the question.

The Ambassador looks as though he's listening, still fixing him with that too-eager stare, so Armitage continues.

“Our usual meeting spot is in a cove down in the bay. I'm sure you have people who can take you down there. It's tomorrow morning.” He makes to leave, picking his bag up off the floor and heading toward the exit.

“What time tomorrow morning?” the Ambassador asks.

“Just… morning.” The minute passage of time is an obsession he's only ever seen here on base. Forget trying to make the _éden_ adhere to it.

He takes a small step off to the side to let Armitage through. It's not really enough room, but he doesn't complain.

“My name is Ben, by the way,” he says loudly as Armitage squeezes past him, slipping by face-to-face.

It would have been nice for him to have said that much sooner, but Armitage still spares him a polite smile. He's never met a Ben before, but the name seems to fit the round cheeks and wide eyes. And the clumsiness, too. The simple syllable seems like a good name for a clumsy person.

When he's cleared the door and is halfway down the steps, the Ambassador calls out to him yet again.

“Will you be there?”

-

_“Will you be there?”_

Armitage finds this question flitting through his mind all day — when he's at work, eating lunch, walking home, at the dinner table. He keeps asking himself, _will I be there?_

He had initially thought, _definitely not_ , but now…

It was as if being asked had sparked something on in his brain, like suddenly it was now a choice when it hadn't been before. With all the pressure, it had seemed like something he needed to fight, but the Ambassador’s question had made it clear that it was still his choice. 

Relief had set in briefly with the pressure to comply gone, only to be replaced with a new pressure, the weight of choice. It was no longer as simple as fighting what others thought. He would have to settle on his place for himself.

He could continue on with life as it is and wait for something to give, or he could do as the _éden_ suggested and take it in stride.

It wouldn't change his life drastically, he supposes. He's already halfway there, half of the _éden's_ vision for him. He wouldn't be giving up anything material. His work would continue. His home life would continue. _Kjára_ … that's up in the air, but the _éden_ may still allow him there.

But his image would be skewed. How could he call himself _Marlánysîl_ when no one else would?

When he takes his conflict his mother that night, her only response is to stare him down and tell him, “It's your life, not anyone else's.”

-

The sirens are calling out for the second time this day. One can be heard a league away, her loud, clear voice piercing the wind to travel out from the northern cape. Another can be heard on the southern cape, calling alongside the first to warn any approaching sailors of winds, tides and currents. Every morning and evening, in fair weather or wild, they sing out _Marlá's_ will.

This morning, they warn of rain and a swift wind flying in from the ocean to the land. The waves are loud on the beach, the crashes echoing on the rocky cliffs that line the bay. Even _Marlá_ 's voice can be heard on the gail, warning sailors with a mournful wail, _do not come too close_. The oncoming storm drowns out the tittering beat of raindrops on the beach's black glass and sets the cool air on edge.

A tingle runs over Armitage's skin as he watches the waves. _Sair_ 's Cove offers plenty of shelter from the rain, but nothing against the late winter chill brought in today. He shivers once at the unusual conditions and steps further inside to wait alone.

It's still very early, but he didn't want to linger at the house and let himself come up with another excuse not to be here. If he can help both sides of this pointless feud, he will. What others think of him is of little consequence; what really matters is what he does with what he's given. He's pretty sure that's what his mother was trying to say last night, anyway.

The personal connections to important Republic officials weren't lost on him, either. He could finally be truly connected in a way that counts. His father had never been enough. He was Imperial, and Armitage doesn't even know his name. However, if he allies with these new Ambassadors, people sent from the Galactic Senate…

It might not mean much to his grandmother, but it means a lot to him. That's what matters.

Another siren call breaks through the storm, and a shadow appears at the Cove's entrance. Once clear of the rain, the _éden_ drops her hood.

“I'm glad you could make it,” she smiles warmly.

Her footsteps are silent as she walks deeper into the lightly furnished inlet. The one lamp that Armitage lit stretches her dark shadow up the wall until it's something much more than human.

He smiles back at her godly shadow.

“I've been thinking about your dream,” she murmurs, lighting another two lamps and scattering her other self. “How many times have you seen it?”

“Just once.”

 _A falling star, a fiery landing, something coming for him, something hungry and insatiable, something he hungers for in return_.

“Tell me immediately when you see it again.”

He nods and hopes he won't have to. Ever since he began his short nightly prayer, he's had nothing but dreamless sleep. As long as his sleep stays quiet and doesn't send that hunger pulsing through his veins again, he'll be content.

With nothing more to say, they sit quietly and bide their time until five cloaked figures come in from the rain.

“Armitage? _Aíme han?_ ”

His eyes snap to Sígmîr’s as soon as his hood comes down. He shakes his head minutely, willing the boy not to say anything rash. He's still young and stupid, working at the consulate until his father pulls him onto a ship.

Sígmîr just shrugs and takes Armitage's presence in stride. He waves a hand back at the four people removing their hoods behind him — two women and two men, including Ben.

“ _Ámiëm Embâssadóret Republicánits_ ,” he introduces unnecessarily.

Armitage knows who these people are. He stands next to the _éden_.

This is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess just one note: the éden does not have a name. Sort of like how the Pope takes on a chosen name and we all just call him 'the Pope,' they do something similar with the éden.
> 
> Congratulations on making it this far, and thank you for reading! I love long chapters, but they are brutal to write and edit. I wrote all of this on paper and then typed it up on both my phone and laptop, so please ignore any discrepancies. I know it's bad. I've gone over it a billion times and I'm still not done editing.
> 
> As always, I'm slut for talkers. Tell me what you like! Even if it's just a little thing, I wanna hear it!
> 
> Feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com) anytime!


	6. moí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NSFW (female top nudity) art in color](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/post/180607309434/chapter-5-of-in-the-hearts-of-men-is-now-up-on)
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: new note at the end

The days on Arkanis are long. The cold glow breaks between the curtains early and does not fade until after he’s supposed to be asleep. The rotation on base is odd; three six-hour shifts and a standard eight-hour night. It’s not a big enough change from Chandrila to be immediately noticeable, but after nights of restless sleep followed by seemingly endless days, Ben was beginning to feel a little frayed.

The constant cloud cover only made things worse. He could hardly judge time of day at all and found himself looking to a slow-moving chrono every few minutes. He remembered that nurse on Chrila saying something about how depressed this place would make him, but he didn’t think it would be this bad.

He’d tried to listen during that morning’s meeting with the — what was it? Marlanese? Maclanil? — native leader, but it was no use. He kept drifting off into thought, distracted by the raging storm outside, the bouncing flames on the walls, the odd young man with the Imperial name. Armitage.

Seeing Armitage again had been a shock, though admittedly it shouldn’t have been. Their first two encounters had been a little too significant to be coincidence, and something about him had called through the Force. But when he saw him again in the consulate and attempted the brief touch experiment… Nothing.

It was incredibly strange to be in his presence then. Ben had felt him enter, felt his darting mind when he was confronted, but felt nothing when they touched. It was as if Armitage’s significance had simply vanished for that moment when they made contact, and fluttered back to normal on the other side of the door. It was not the vivid experience Ben had felt before.

And yet, in that morning’s lamplight, Ben felt it again. A small fire, jumping at him and burning him every time he looked away. The Force was telling him something, but he doesn’t know what. He spent a good part of that meeting alternating between staring at Armitage like an idiot, willing something to reveal itself, and studiously ignoring him to let that fire reach out and bite.

Perhaps the moment in the consulate was a total anomaly on his end. He’d been able to feel out the surface of Armitage’s mind without trouble, had felt him clearly in every moment but that one. He’d just been focusing too hard. It would be stupid to read too far into it without more research; more encounters, and especially at more convenient times than the end of the night shift when he’s snooping around for files he has no official business reading. Namely, Poe Dameron’s.

The file hadn’t said much, his career isn’t very long, but it did give him a picture and his assigned residency, where Ben finds himself now.

A-Block isn’t exactly a “block,” Ben quickly discovers. With all the open real estate, Arkanis Base offers a luxury not typically found in the Core: individual housing. Just as Ben had been afforded his own apartment in a small building of four in the old district, the pilot’s quarters are grouped in fours next to their assigned hangar and linked only by a shared courtyard.

It’s nice, but of course it means Ben won’t be able to simply hang out nearby and scout Dameron out. It’s too open and there’s too little foot traffic for him to blend in. He’ll have to find another place where Dameron spends his time if he wants to get in his head.

—

The morning air is cool against Ben's sleep-warm skin. It raises gooseflesh on his forearms and paints splotches of red on his cheeks. The ocean wind whips wildly through his hair and cuts into his robes, forcing a shiver down his back.

At 0400 hours, Ben has no reason at all to be out of bed, except to observe this somber affair down by the beach.

The way it was explained to him, Kjara opens once every thirty-six mornings and closes again at sundown after three days have passed in silence. No work, no play; it is a period of abstinence to cleanse oneself of past wrongdoings.

He'd been told to expect little more than group prayer and silence, and sure enough…

The éden, that old and golden-haired woman they'd met with, stands a few meters out into the surf, facing out at the open ocean with her arms open to the sky. She stands there for what feels like an age, never moving or speaking.

The large gathering of red-haired natives look on her in equal silence and stillness. Only their loose, unstyled hair and long drapes of clothing stir in the wind.

Ben remembers the éden saying something about her role in their society. She's not what the Republic proper would call a leader. She leads by example and provides philosophical guidance, but her people do not take orders from anyone, even her. She is primarily a keeper of the faith, maintaining an ancient order in life until her ultimate death. Then a new éden will be chosen from within the clutch of faith-keepers.

He asked Secretary K’Mondha — who returned from her business just last evening — how these people are governed, but she doesn't seem to know as much as he had thought. She is only a secretary, he reasons, not required to know much more than logistics.

He'll have to ask someone more knowledgeable, maybe even one of these people; like Armitage, or that Sígmîr kid that frequents the consulate. If these people really are ungoverned as the éden led him to believe, that could pose some serious problems down the road.

But as the glow that was peeking over the cliffs behind them slowly spreads over the sky, Ben realizes his error. He won't be able to ask these people anything for three days. He has to wonder how seriously they take their vow of silence.

—

The next afternoon, by luck or circumstance, Ben finds Poe Dameron.

Ben is in a small half-café, half-market shop, trying his hardest to restock his conservator with the meager, Outer Rim pickings. The base's main exchange is way up north, convenient for most of the officers and their families, but not for the few living on the south side — like the latest personnel, including Ben and the new squadron of pilots.

Dameron is sitting at a table near the door, conversing with a couple other men over cups of caf. He looks just like his service picture; young and bright, with an edge of daring. Ben can't hear what they're talking about from this distance, but that's not what he's concerned with anyway.

Turning back toward the rack of food so as not to arouse suspicion, he lets his surroundings fade out and Dameron's buzzing energy fade in.

As with every other fighter or racer he's come across, Ben gets a lot of static at first. His thoughts cross like highways, dragging Ben in every direction, constantly pulling him in and pushing him out. It's fuzzy and impossible to read until Ben can find a charged enough thought to latch onto, then he's dragged along at the same breakneck speed.

_drills...up the run and back...live fire...circuits...trash can of the galaxy...oh six-hundred sharp...fueling exercises...why here?_

As soon as that thought pulses through their minds, Ben gives it a nudge. _Here?_

_This place is the worst. Everyone here has something dishonorable on their record. Am I that bad? Did I really piss someone off?_

When Ben retreats, he takes a second to get his bearings.

The hum of the café store slowly fades back in. The scent of sweet caf settles around him.

Dameron and his companions are still chatting away, absorbed in their conversation.

All the patrons are still going about their business, and the food in Ben's basket is still cold.

Is that really what Dameron is thinking already? And is it true? Is Arkanis Base reserved for the less-than-professional officers and soldiers?

It _would_ make sense — no one wants to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere. They just get put out there by other people. For a reason.

Suddenly, Ben is flooded with a new appreciation for his mother's skill for strategy and personal manipulation. There are plenty of other systems out on the front that get more traffic, that have better living conditions, that aren't punishments.

However, anyone sent to those places would be far too content to consider going AWOL.

Out here, on the other hand, anything could happen. And it is, if Dameron’s ruminations are anything to go by.

Ben idly rubs his thumb against the impression of the key lying against his chest and wonders what time it is on Chandrila.

—

“How many people here are yours?”

_“You know I'm not going to answer that, Ben.”_

Ben huffs and pouts at the grainy image on his holoscreen.

The reception here is terrible. They still use old-style radio to connect to the relay orbiters, and this place gets a lot of interference. He can almost understand why most of the tech here hasn't been updated — it wouldn't make a difference unless someone dished out the money to upgrade the relays.

Fancy screen or not, he can barely make out his mother's stern glare.

“You never tell me anything,” he complains.

 _“Look, Ben,”_ she sighs. _“I know you want to stay in the loop, but that's not very practical in this case.”_

It's never practical in her opinion, but Ben doesn't say anything about that. Instead, he recounts his brief scouting venture.

“The only reason I ask is because Dameron thinks he's being punished by being stationed here. He's smart, so he's probably not wrong. I figured he was sent here so that he _would_ think that.”

_“And you thought that might apply to others, too?”_

Ben grins sheepishly. “Does it?”

 _“You're very clever, Ben, and I commend you,”_ she smiles fondly for a moment, _“but I still won't be answering any questions like that.”_ Ben takes that for a ‘yes.’ _“Now, tell me more about Dameron.”_

Ben closes his eyes and takes a second to think about all the impressions Dameron left in his mind.

“He's smart,” he decides. “He's sharp, clever. He thinks about flying a lot, almost all the time. He feels impulsive. He's conscious of others in relation to himself, but not independently.”

He looks at his mother's fuzzy visage and shrugs.

“I only got a moment with him, so that's all I know.”

 _“Thank you,”_ she says with a grateful nod. _“And what about your work? Do you hate Arkanis as much as Dameron does?”_

He groans; he doesn't know where to begin.

“This place is depressing. It's always overcast, and the days are twenty-six hours long. The clinic by home wrote me a big prescription, but I didn't really realize how much medicine I'd have to take until I tried to fit it all in my ‘fresher cabinet.

“Oh,” he huffs, “and the day cycle is totally uneven, too. It's only dark for maybe six hours at night. I—”

He stops himself short, considering how he really feels so far.

“I don't totally hate it,” he amends. “The base sucks, but the country is…” — nice? Pretty? — “beautiful.” In a dangerous sort of way.

_“I'm glad to hear that. And your work?”_

“Confusing,” he admits readily. “Master Jade laid out some groundwork for me to build off of, but the situation is kind of muddier than I thought it would be. It's definitely a test.”

_“Is it anything I can help you with?”_

Ben lights up. She can't really help with his internal struggle, but resourcefulness can't be considered cheating if it's _wise_.

“Part of it is, actually. I’m not sure, but I don't think these people have a government—”

_“They don't.”_

“Wait, how do you know?”

 _“If you don't recognize one, then they don't have one that matters to you.”_ She shakes her head knowingly. _“Most ungoverned human societies are what we call ‘self-governed.’ They don't care for politics at all; to each, his own. They're generally polite.”_

“Oh, okay. That makes a lot of sense, actually.” He considers their utter contempt for the base and all the people on it. “They just want to be left alone.”

_“That's correct. The problem is we can't simply leave Arkanis. That's why you're there.”_

“Yes, but how do we gain their favor if they simply won't listen to us?”

 _“Give them someone to listen to,”_ she says plainly.

“Give them someone to listen to?” he asks, confused. “What do you mean?”

_“I mean exactly what I said.”_

“Is it really that simple? Just send them a representative?”

_“Of course not, but that's for you to figure out case-by-case.”_

“Right,” he sighs, thinking back to his most recent lessons with Mara. “Hey, Mom?”

_“I’m listening.”_

He knows his next question is probably stupid, but he asks anyway.

“Does your work ever… get to you? Knowing that no matter what happens, someone always loses — does that ever…?”

_“All the time, but that's why I do it. I can't make everyone happy; no one can. But if I'm in a position where I can help, then it would be terrible for me to waste that.”_

“How do you…?” He’s not sure what he's trying to ask, but she somehow answers it.

 _“I listen to my gut, selectively. If I shied away from everything that made me feel bad, I'd get nothing done at all. Instead, I do what feels_ right _. And when I do feel bad, I let it go.”_

“You make it sound so easy.”

 _“It isn't.”_ Her image is degrading even more. Ben can barely make out her sad eyes. _“It's very difficult, in fact. You just have to learn to accept it.”_

“Thanks, Mom.”

_“You can talk with me anytime. And if you have reason to suspect that anything bad is going on, like if any officials you're working with are up to something, I want to hear about it. We're heading into some rough stretches, and we can't afford any surprises.”_

“You got it.”

—

The next two days are uneventful. All the emissaries apparently don't need to work during Kjára, as there's nothing to be done directly with the natives.

Ben wishes there were more for him to do, some sort of job to occupy his time, but overall, his job has very little workload. Most of the work done in the consulate is mindless form-filling sprinkled with brief in-person meetings and the occasional holocall off-world; that's all handled by the drone workers, sometimes bumped up to Secretary K'Mondha if it needs higher clearance.

It's nothing like the bustling Interrelations Square in Hanna City, where four grand towers join to form a megaplex of galactic embassies. Arkanis Base is small, the only metro area on the entire planet. Since it's all owned and managed by the Galactic High Command, they don't have any lesser states to deal with. The little attached village of Scaparus Port does next to nothing to increase the workload — everyone that lives there is either married into the Navy or contracted with Command.

Ben will really need to take up a hobby if he's going to stay sane.

But now, after three days, he's finally got something to occupy his time; although, at almost midnight, he'd truly rather be sleeping. His stomach rumbles as he climbs off the speeder. Eating would also be nice.

Kjára closes at sundown — however that might be measured in such a cloudy sky. The eastern sky is darkening over the city lights, the lines of the clouds no longer distinguishable. Over the ocean, the glow remains, turning to a faint color Ben can't quite pin down. 

This is the same as where Kjára opened, south of the bay where the meeting was held. The sand stretches far out from the rocks and cliffs, flat and dark, almost glittering in the low light. It's still just light enough out for him and Pascaline to make out the slippery patches of purple moss covering the dark, razor-sharp rocks and navigate their way to the sand without breaking an ankle.

“This would be a great place to train, don't you think?” Pascaline jokes, feet finally hitting the beach. “We wouldn't even have to hit each other to do damage. I'd just make you flinch and watch you impale yourself on the rocks.”

“You'd better be glad Luke and Mara aren't here to welcome that suggestion,” Ben grimaces. “Know the terrain, and all that.”

“I’m already glad they aren't here. If they were here, we'd be the ones stuck doing nothing at all.”

“You think they're doing nothing? At all?” Ben asks skeptically. “Alone in what’s likely a completely empty town? With each other?”

“Fair.” Pascaline smirks. “Reconnaissance is a blow-off, especially if everyone is right here on this beach, as they're supposed to be.” She punctuates that with a nod toward the scene in front of them.

It all looks much as it did at Kjára’s opening; a heavy smattering of redheads — _Marlánysîl_ , he's sure that's right — in silent prayer, basking on a half-sunlit beach.

This time, however, the mood is obviously different. Many here don varying levels of nudity; the minimal clothing is ornately decorated, and and their bare skin boasts itself as a canvas to be painted. As Ben draws nearer to the gathered mass, his attention is caught by elaborate hairstyles, jewelry, and intricately woven shawls in all sorts of patterns. Many, many shawls, actually. It seems to be a staple, dressed or underdressed.

As the clouds to the east darken to match the rest of the sky, a single shout sounds out, echoing in the empty air before fading away. Again, it rings out, and a figure steps forward and out into the surf, half-illuminated by a large bonfire. Soon, another fire is lit, and Ben can see that it is the éden.

Her arms are held out in the same manner as at Kjára’s opening, and stay held aloft as she begins to chant. It is in the native language, of course; Ben would expect no less. Softly, everyone on the beach begins to chant with her, some crooning slowly, some keeping in her time. They collective voice gets louder and louder as more fires are lit, and soon, all Ben can see is shades of red.

Then suddenly, as if the mass's breath was released in one big gust, everything moves at once. It washes over Ben like a wave.

Drumming beats in from all sides, surrounding them and lifting everyone up. The rhythm is an odd one, changing and shifting, as if it has a life of its own. It sways gently, rocks and thrashes, and every person in the mass moves with it in one great movement, moving forward into the water.

It seems to be a sort of dance. Their faces turn up to the darkness above, and their hands push down to the surface below. It's not dancing as he's used to seeing, but he can't mistake it for anything else. The beat moves through them as they drag their feet through the rippling and running water, and then Ben gets it.

Their dance _is_ the water, the ocean, rocking up against the land. He doesn't know what they're saying, but he can imagine it's got to do with that.

He stands in the sand next to Pascaline and just watches, losing track of time until the dance comes to an end and the drumming and chanting stop with one final burst. They all drift back in to land in a buzzing chatter, mood light and frenetic from three days without socializing or, presumably, food.

A good meal seems to be next up on the agenda, as a fragrant smoke quickly starts drifting up from many of the fires. The people group around them, perhaps by family or neighbors, but nothing separates them, and many begin to mingle freely. Large tents are expertly erected near the cliff walls, and new fires are formed wherever they can fit.

Once cooking affairs are in order, the meals tended to by the older women with younglings in tow, the natural energy of the Marlánysîl comes to life. More and more bodies begin to discard more and more clothing, favoring the bright pigments painted on by friends and retaining only the barest modesty.

Ben thinks he spies some markings that may be more permanent, but he tries not to stare. He is kept all too aware of public opinion by the occasional side glance he receives, and so does his best to remain on the outskirts with Pascaline.

Maybe reconnaissance back in the empty town wouldn't be so bad; their presence here is trivial at best. Even K'Mondha didn't come.

A new beat sounds off somewhere to his left, spurred on with cheering and applause. A circle has formed around a particularly large fire, and they all seem to be dancing. It's more energetic and wild than the carefully executed moves from earlier, and Ben's curiosity is stoked. He makes his way closer for a better look.

What he sees isn't all that different from the hedonistic clubs found in the Core. Young women in flowing skirts and loose shawls jump and twirl to a rapid chant. Their braided hair catches the firelight like the bright jewelry on their bodies, spreading the heart of the fire all around. Designs like many of their faces and bodies in dark ink, blurring as they move.

Looking around, he can't count how many similar groups there are. They stretch as far as the eye can see, all singing and dancing, rejoicing in their rebirth.

Their warmth has spread to him, he realizes, and in a moment of clarity, he remembers that he's supposed to stick with Pascaline. He turns around, searching for her in the crowd. He'll have to move back inland if he's to have any luck.

After snaking his way out of the heated festivities, he begins his search in earnest, feeling out for Pasc— 

Armitage, standing in a cramped inlet, snatches his attention.

His hair is in a proud array of braids, decorated with clusters of gems and twirls of colored thread, making him nearly unrecognizable, but it's definitely him; Ben can feel it. His shirt has been replaced with lines of ink that meander down his chest and back and wrap over his arms.

He's speaking with a young woman, though the exchange sounds tense and charged. They must be arguing over something they don't want overheard, consonants harsh and exaggerated.

Ben doesn't want to interrupt, so he carries on back toward when he left Pasc.

He finds her close to that path leading to where they left the speeders. She's tending a small fire she must've made herself, stuffing her face with… something. She's clearly enjoying it.

“Here,” she mumbles, holding something out to him.

He takes it and gives it a brief sniff. It smells meaty and pungent, and he wrinkles his nose. The dense bread roll doesn't smell bad, but the meaty paste in the middle is offensive. His stomach rumbles at him anyway, so he takes a careful bite.

It doesn't taste nearly as bad as it smells. It definitely tastes like meat, salty and savory, mixed with a healthy dose of hot and sweet spices and something sticky. He's not sure what all is in it. Pascaline answers him before he can ask.

“It's some sort of sea animal I got at the market with a condiment that was on the shelf right next to it. Local stuff, I was told.” She shrugs and takes another big bite. “Not bad, huh.”

He answers with a second bite of his own. 

“So, what do you think of all this?” he asks, gesturing out to the ongoing celebrations around them.

“It's nice, I suppose.” Pasc shrugs. “It's good to know what they do for recreation, when they gather, stuff like that.”

“Oh, yeah, of — of course,” Ben stutters. He's got to get himself in a better habit of being more analytical. He often gets too caught up in the moment, and that makes it difficult for him to plan and plot out the future. Even sticking to the plan once it's been made is a challenge of its own.

He thinks back to the problem he posed to his mother, and her response of ‘give them someone to listen to.’ He's still not sure how he can possibly do that, but it sounds like the beginnings of a plan. These people clearly already have a common identity to rally around, and they gather regularly enough that something could surely work out. They just need a representative, plus some extra steps he doesn't yet know. But Pascaline is probably already on it; she's a lot like Mara in that sense. 

When he's finished his food, he stays by the fire with Pasc only a bit longer. Things seem to be shifting within the celebration — less divide, more large groups gathering around multiple fires at once. The general chatter quiets down, allowing the drum beats to be heard clearly along the beach.

He wanders close to the nearest gathering to watch over their shoulders.

One of the kids from the consulate, Sígmîr, is in the center of this group, swaying and rocking in time with his own chanting. It seems to pulse through him, and like a man possessed, he throws his arms above his head with an animalistic growl, ending his chant. He holds this pose, mouth open and teeth bared, for a few snarling huffs. His eyes are wild and wide — Ben can see the whites from here.

He resumes the chant with a shout, then goes back to his slightly more human dance.

Across the circle, Ben sees another familiar face. Armitage. He's got more paint on him than before, but Ben can't make out the significance.

Until the woman in front of him steps out into the circle, and the shadow cast over him is removed. The lines on his chest etch out the head of an arkto, just like the statues Ben saw along the canals. The lines are a little abstract, but Ben hasn't seen anything similar enough to be mistaken.

It's a little odd to see such a large and fierce creature on someone so thin and fair, but the fierce look on Armitage's face dispels that idea quickly. His gaze is fixed on the woman inside the circle.

When the group sees her, they lean in a little, trying almost politely to edge each other out for a better view. They watch and wait. For what? Ben doesn't have to wonder for long.

She swings an odd, whip-like instrument against a large, flat drum and begins to sing in time. It doesn't fit into the typical joyful or somber mood he's used to, but is rather more matter-of-fact, like a simple recounting.

Perhaps that's exactly what it is, Ben realizes as the song goes on.

More drumming echoes nearby, adding to the drama carried in her voice. She isn't dancing, at least not in any normal way. No, she's stalking.

Ben recognizes her. It's the same woman he met on his first day here, whose house he walked through, who felt so dangerous. He can feel it now, the same call of danger he felt from the arkto statue. It rolls off her in waves as she circles whatever prey may lie in the center of the circle.

When he looks back, Armitage is nowhere to be seen. 

The retelling is loudly broken by a cry, howl, something from deep within the woman that Ben can't name. It's not new to him, though. It brings to mind the sound of a soul, or perhaps what the Force would sound like if it could be heard. It has an impact on everyone here, Ben can clearly see. They all watch in a trance as she drops to her knees in the last breath of a cry. 

As in Sígmîr’s performance, she is seemingly one with the music. It is not so much heard as felt, with this woman plainly showing that her entire soul has been put out. She ends the song in a darker growl than Sígmîr's, and collapses into the dark sand.

Ben is boxed out of view before he ever sees her stir, but when he next gets a glimpse, all he sees is fire. It's all around him, climbing up his robes. When did the fire reach him? Did it jump across the river to his little sinking rock, or did he bail from the rock and choose the endless fire over the cold vacuum of space? He can't question it for too long because it's burning, burning, _burning_ —

“If my appearance offends you that much, then by all means, there's no reason to keep looking at me.” Green-grey eyes stare back at him.

Ben releases the tension in his shoulders and wipes what's probably a stupid look off his face.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You, um, you…” He trails off dumbly.

‘You look good’ is not exactly what he's trying to say, and ‘you don't look terrible’ just doesn't sound sincere. He's not sure how to balance those two out to describe what he's really thinking — ‘you look kind of freaky in that face paint, and I don't remember seeing any of those piercing before. Also, your hair looks like you just got back from a preteen girl's slumber party, and there's an arkto on your chest, which is naked and showing more questionable jewelry. But I swear I wasn't staring at you; I was just overcome with a vision that has nothing to do with mental incompetence and everything to do with my super-exclusive religion that recruits kids to grow up away from their parents.’

Yeah, no. Ben's not going to say that. After another concerned look from Armitage, he settles on, “I was just remembering something, that's all.”

“Alright.” Armitage points to something behind Ben. “I need to get through to my mother,” he explains, and Ben makes room for him to pass, but not without an escort.

He follows Armitage as he walks easily through the dark sand — barefoot, he notes. Armitage notices his continued presence, but doesn't say anything or make him leave, just slows down a little so Ben can keep up. When the crowd thins enough, Ben moves up to walk at Armitage's side, taking his chance to finally get a lead on these people.

“So, I thought we might, we might talk,” he stumbles awkwardly. He doesn't even know where to begin. Armitage gives him a look.

“Talk.” It sounds like a command.

“Okay.” Ben nods. “Yeah, so… I've never done this before.” Armitage gives him another indecipherable look, and he clarifies, “Kjára, I mean. I don't know what to expect. How is the rest of the night gonna go? Just more of the same until sunrise?”

Armitage shrugs. “Usually.”

“Oh, does it change sometimes?”

“Sometimes.”

Okay, then. Short answers, it is. He needs to ask something that can get him a good answer.

“So,” he begins, but Armitage stops him.

“Can I ask you questions in return?” His brow is raised, perhaps in humor, mockery, or good nature. Ben can't quite tell. He shrugs.

“Ask away. What's fair is fair.” Maybe Armitage will lead him in the right direction, find some ground where they can both get good answers.

Armitage sizes Ben up quickly.

“Where are you from?” The question is so simple, so innocuous, that Ben is taken aback. It's a good start.

“The capital,” he answers vaguely. The real answer isn't as simple for him as it is for most people.

“What's the name?” Armitage follows up. “I've heard it moves to different planets.” He seems to be genuinely interested, so Ben responds in kind.

“Chandrila, mostly. It does move, and I moved with it when I was young, but my school was on Chandrila, so I stayed there most of the time.”

“Were you born on that one?” he asks next.

“No.”

“Which planet, then?”

Ben chuckles. “None of them?”

“None of them,” Armitage echoes, incredulous.

Ben shakes his head and settles it. “None of them. I was born in space, on a ship en route to Hosnian.”

Armitage gives him a careful look, but accepts it.

“Like a star, then,” he intones quietly.

“A star?” Ben asks. Armitage shrugs.

“Stars are born in space, aren't they?”

“I suppose,” he chuckles. He's never thought of it that way.

Armitage stops abruptly in a dark and empty space, side-eyeing him.

“Not to be rude or anything, sir, but was there something specific you wanted to ask me about? You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yes, I do,” Ben stalls for a second to gather his wits. He's never been good at leading conversation, not thoughtful or eloquent enough. He just needs… “I need to learn about your culture. I don't have many specific questions yet because things have only just started, but you seem like a good place to start.”

“Me?” he asks skeptically, pointing to himself.

“Of course. You work in the consulate as a diplomat, don't you? I haven't seen you around lately,” he rambles, “but you were at our meeting. Forgive me if I don't know exactly what your job is.”

Armitage stares at him for a moment before huffing a short laugh.

“You haven't seen me at the consulate because I don't work there,” he says, shaking his head. “And my job has nothing to do with diplomacy. I was at the meeting because the éden wanted me to be there, but—” He snaps his jaw shut and turns to continue to wherever they were walking, Ben trailing behind him.

After a minute, when Ben has nearly forgotten what Armitage was saying, he stops again and mumbles, “I'm not exactly a representative of our people,” and leaves it at that. But Ben, being his mother's son, can't help but press.

“Why not?” he asks. “If the éden thinks you should be at our meetings, then—”

Armitage stops him with a shake of the head.

“I'm basically a mechanic,” he grits out.

“A mechanic?”

“For your people, on the base,” he clarifies.

“If it's a scheduling issue, then I'm sure we can get around it. Diplomacy isn't exactly a time-consuming—”

“That's not the problem. The problem is that I'm not like them.” He gestures to all the people still enjoying the festivities around them.

Ben looks him up and down.

“No,” he says doubtfully. “I think you're a lot like them.”

“I speak your language, I work for you, I live close to you and spend my time with you,” he rattles off in exasperation. “I don't even have a family name because my father was one of you. These people here would never let me speak for them. I'm not the person you need. I want to help, but what could I possibly do for you?”

Ben doesn't see the problem. He gestures out to the same people Armitage did.

“You're much more familiar with all of this than I am right now. All I need is for you to tell me what they want and what they need.” _How to get them on on the Republican side_ , he doesn't say.

“And you'll help them?” His gaze is intense, imploring.

“That's what we're here for,” Ben assuages. “I just need your expertise. None of us know this place better than you.”

Armitage nods slowly, seemingly pleased with his proposal.

“So I'll see you at the consulate?” Ben prompts.

Armitage takes a step back.

“We’ll see.”

—

The festivities go on until Ben's head is pounding and the dim glow of the hidden sun reaches out from behind the eastern ridges.

Everyone trickles back into civilization; the Marlánysîl to their settlements in the IPZ, and Ben and Pascaline back to base.

He didn't see Armitage again for the rest of the night; he just seemed to disappear. But in a crowd of tall, thin redheads, that's not so strange.

As he gets ready for bed, closing the curtains and casting his apartment into darkness, he thinks about the plan to gain favor.

They're going to need to follow his mother's suggestion and find someone the Marlánysîl can trust, someone they'll listen to and follow. Then they can put the larger plan into action. The only question is how to build that trust when they don't already have a foundation for it. He can take a few days to think it through, then take it to Mara. She'll be proud to hear that he came up with something on his own.

—

He doesn't see Armitage at all over the next few days. Per their conversation at the Kjára gathering, he had hoped to see him at the consulate at least once. Ben hadn't bothered to get any contact details from him, just assumed they would see each other again.

It's a fair assumption, of course, that he would see Armitage again — something about him is loud through the Force, and Ben does not believe in coincidences — but it doesn't happen where he would expect.

Ben's out for a morning jog, clearing his mind in the hopes that he'll soon come up with a plan for the Marlánysîl. The grey streets on base are too cluttered, not particularly fraught with physical activity, but not easy on the mind. He had to get away from that if he wanted to think outside the box, and he finds himself running out the gate on that natural-worn road that leads to the forest.

There's a fork in the road before it turns into the tall trees, and Ben thinks for a moment about exploring the less-travelled path. He knows it heads down into the bay, but it's been dark every time he's ridden it. On the other hand, he's only gone the forest route once on the speeders, as opposed to three times following the beach route.

He takes the bridge into the forest, marvelling at its size. It didn't seem this large when they rode over it on their way to the small town, but he supposes that was simply because he was flying fast and not paying attention. To look at the vast ravine below, now on foot and near the edge, is dizzying. He backs from the edge of the bridge and keeps running.

Just as he's beginning to feel lighter and a little tired, thinking of turning around, he pulls around the bend and nearly runs into a small group of young men. 

“What do you want?” the one who must be the leader asks. He steps forward in front of the others, some of whom Ben recognizes from the consulate. His speech is heavily accented, but seems fluent enough.

Ben digs his feet into the earth and rolls his shoulders.

“I'm just out and enjoying the scenery,” he answers. 

“You aren't supposed to be out,” the young man spits. Ben doesn't recognize him, but he looks like a real jerk, and his goons don't look any better. How any of them are allowed on base escapes him.

“Excuse me?” he scoffs.

He sizes them up as a couple of them roll up their sleeves, apparently ready to fight. They're young, obviously stupid. He doubts they're weak, though; they may be small, but they're likely lean from physical labor. Their underlying hostility has blossomed into cold opportunism.

His lightsaber is at the apartment — he's dressed only in running clothes — but he's not weaponless. He’d hate for it to come down to the vibroblade he has tucked away, so he feels out the edges of their minds and stares the ringleader in the eye.

“Go home, Médhys,” a voice calls out from behind the boys. “Leave him alone.”

Armitage.

He says a few more harsh-sounding words to them that Ben doesn't understand, something in their language that sounds like a challenge, and cuts through them to stand in front of Ben.

“What are you doing out here?” he hisses. He must be tired; circles are beginning to spread under his eyes, and his tone is shows a short-temper.

“I'm going for a run,” Ben explains just as quietly, gesturing down to his running attire. Armitage shakes his head.

“Not out here, you aren't.” Armitage reaches out and grabs Ben by the shoulders, turning him around to face back in the direction he came from. His hands are hot on Ben's back, almost burning, and Ben shivers slightly when he gives him a disorienting shove.

“Get out of here,” Armitage urges. “Go back to base and stay there.”

Ben glances back over his shoulder to see Armitage already dressing down the pack of younger boys, then starts his slow jog back to base.

He's about halfway back when Armitage catches up with him, his swath of warm crawling up like fire. Ben turns to look at his tired face.

“I'm sorry about them,” Armitage apologizes. “They don't take kindly to you all being out here. It's seen as sort of,” he grimaces and seems to fish around for the right word, “sacred? The wildland, that is. It would be best for all involved if you stayed on base, unless you have someone to escort you.”

“Why don't you escort me?” Ben suggests. “You seemed to have a good handle on those guys back there.”

“I'm headed into work,” he says regrettably.

“And I'm headed back to base, too, so stay with me. I have some questions.”

“Questions?”

“Regarding our conversation a few days ago,” Ben clarifies. “You're the best lead I have on the other side of this conflict.”

“Oh, right.” Armitage nods slowly. Their pace is slow, so Ben will hopefully be able to get the answers he’s looking for.

“As far as what they need, or honestly even what they want — I'll do my best to give it, but I need to know what it is, first,” he starts. “Second, I need to know how to get through to them so they'll engage with us. I understand the previous Ambassadors weren't forthcoming and kept holding things back from you? That seems to have caused a lot of the divide.”

“Yes,” Armitage nods thoughtfully. “There are lots of things that are wanted and needed around here, but no one can really properly ask for it. Everyone wants something different, and no one wants to volunteer to sit down with you. I've been thinking, and I believe the problem we've had isn't entirely that you all haven't been listening, or that you haven't been forthcoming with aid, but that they haven't been willing to ask for help because they want to be able to help themselves.”

Ben nods along.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think what they need most is leadership, someone of our own that can truly match _your_ leadership.

“We have the éden, but she's not really the same thing to us as your leaders are to you. She's important and very wise, but she is a guide more than she is a leader, and she would never act otherwise. She's too passive to act on the scale needed.”

“So, what you're saying is…”

“We need structure. If you can give _anything_ , then that would be best. Just some tiny foundation to help them all realize that they need structure if they're to get what they want.”

Ben examines Armitage carefully. What feelings he had before this intervention seem almost silly now. What Mara said to him before about not knowing good from bad, and about being hated… He can now recognize it for the simple test of shock that it was. He might still be hated, but it wouldn't really count for anything if they didn't understand that he's helping them. These people do need structure and leadership, and if there's a way to make it palatable to them, then they'll find it.

And Armitage… He's smart; maybe it's the engineering, maybe it's the perspective. Either way, it's welcome. Ben gets the sneaking suspicion that his mission, maybe even his Trials, would be impossible without him. He'll have to keep a careful eye on him in the coming months.

The pair quickly make their way back to base, and Armitage leaves Ben at the front of the consulate. 

“I've got work to do,” he mutters, hiking the strap of his bag up his shoulder. “Is that all there was to discuss?”

“I'm sure I'll have some more questions later, but I don't exactly have a restrictive schedule, so you can come by anytime you like.”

Armitage nods politely and turns to leave before Ben can quite remember his manners.

“Armitage,” he calls after him. He stops and looks back over his shoulder. “I would like to see you here more. I think you can definitely help make some important changes.”

Armitage nods again and leaves.

It's still a little early, but Ben goes into the consulate. He needs to find Mara and tell her about his idea. There are just a few employees in so far, and he's got nothing better to do, so he opts to wait for her to show.

It doesn't take long; she's always been an early riser. When she gets upstairs to their shared office, Ben launches immediately into his show-and-tell with a single sentence.

“If we give them a sense of control by lending an avenue to exact change, then we can influence them.”

Mara raises a brow. Ben continues.

“They're already weakened, right? The previous administrations have done that. So if we let them come to the table and _feel_ comfortably independent, they won't notice that they aren't. You said yourself that every stage has to happen together, right? So we can give them a type of government — which we'll make them want, so they can achieve equality with us — and use that government to gain their favor. Then they'll accept any aid from us willingly, remaining sublime. It's just a matter of spreading the idea to them somehow. You think that'll work?”

He looks to Mara to see a fair expression.

“Do you feel it will work?” she asks.

Ben nods.

“And do you feel comfortable doing it?”

He nods again.

“What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something had to change to make _you_ change. People never change on their own.” She raises a brow while he thinks on it.

He's heard what she just said at least a hundred times. It's true. Change is a response, not an isolated state.

“I talked to one of them.” He thinks that must be it; the one that felt important. “The one that was with the éden at the meeting. He told me plainly that they need help.”

“And it felt true to you?”

“Very. And sincere. I feel a lot better about all of this with his blessing, knowing that even from their perspective—” Armitage's perspective isn't there's, his brain nudges “—we'll still be helping. It's not nearly as terrible as you made it sound.”

Mara laughs.

“Don't be shy, Ben. You deserve some credit, too. I laid out the facts, _you_ let them get to you.” 

“True,” he chuckles.

“Now, in the future, will you be relying on others to tell you what's right and what's wrong.”

Ben sighs. “I felt it, too, it's just—”

“Make it a habit of feeling and _knowing_ for yourself, first. Then, and only after you've found the path of truth and balance, should you allow yourself to lend any weight to what others want you to believe.”

“Understood, Master Jade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one written by hand; sorry about any errors!
> 
> I'd like to start including some Arkanis history/culture/language stuff along with the art on tumblr, but I've been busy and have yet to get that started. Please feel free to ask me about anything at all (in the comments or on tumblr, whichever you like). I love talking about it, so it's really no hassle. I want you all to enjoy it.
> 
> EDIT: When I posted this chapter, I said I would being increasing the posting schedule. Unfortunately, I injured myself pretty badly the very next day. Resumes May 16th.
> 
> Here is my [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com).


	7. syr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! Can y'all believe??? Sorry for the wait, and thank you for your patience through these trying times. Here's ten thousand words.
> 
> (Unfortunately, there's no art planned for the rest of ITHOM because I'm trying to finish editing and publishing this quickly, and my hand can't currently support more than 10 minutes of art a day.)

There’s a gap in the clouds. The thin sliver shines bright like a beacon, and Armitage finds himself distracted to the point of impoliteness. He should be paying more attention to Érit and what she’s saying, but the rare beam of light enchants him like fish to flames. Aware of the irony and not eager to get on her bad side, he shifts his focus down to Arkanis, back on the bustling market strip, back on Érit.

“So there I was,” she recounts, “covered in fish guts — and I mean, up to my neck — trying my hardest to keep a straight face, while Moígrim is insisting that he knows just how gross it is to be covered in fish guts! Can you believe he didn’t even offer to help to clean it off?” She’s laughing now; the rare sun rays make her teeth glow unnaturally.

“He was probably too disgusted to help you,” Armitage smirks. “ I bet he’s never actually touched the inside of a fish in his life. And you’d think he’d know who your father is and that you actually clean fish all the time.”

“Actually, not _all_ the time anymore,” she corrects slyly, side-eyeing him.

He quirks a brow, curious.

She shrugs. “That old crone Sôrínja agreed to apprentice me a few weeks back. I go and manage her flock every sixth day, now.”

“Sôrínja,” He tries to remember her, looking around before speaking more quietly. “Is that the one with the dumb son? And no daughters?”

Érit nods solemnly.

“That means you’re…” He looks at her carefully, not wanting to jump to conclusions. They brush past a couple of women, then Érit leans in and drops her tone, as well.

“Not yet,” she sighs. “Right now, she’s looking at a dozen girls. Truth be told, I have no interest in taking on her son, but she’s offering some good experience. Her flock is huge.”

“What would you do if she chose you, though?” He can’t deny that Érit ought to be in high demand outside of the years-delayed arrangement between their mothers. She’s tall and strong, sharp-minded, comes from a good family. “If she’s got a dozen girls to choose from and is seeing you every six days, then you must be high up on her list.”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ll have to line up another obligation to excuse myself, then. My arrangement with you might usually be enough, but I’m not so sure my mother wouldn’t turn down the extra money.” She shudders. “Oh, I hope she doesn’t pick me. What a sad life.”

Armitage agrees. Part of him wonders why Sôrínja bothers to keep her half-witted and incompetent son alive, but he shoves that ill thought aside. It's not any of his business.

“A sad life, indeed,” he says instead, glancing back up at the patch of light in the sky. It gives him an odd sense of anxiety, and even when he looks away, he can't shake the feeling. The light won't last for long, he knows; every minute of warmth cast down on them will always yield to a brief chill and near-endless downpour, but nothing they can't handle.

“Did you ever get those books, by any chance?” Érit asks quietly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “The ones you told me about at dinner at your mother's?”

“ _Oh_ , yes.” He nods quickly. In all forgetfulness, he should have handed that datapad over at dinner that night, weeks ago. He reaches into his bag but stops himself, pulling his empty hand free. The market strip is generally not the best place to casually show off Republican — _fostám_ — technology. “I’ll give it to you when we get to your house.”

“That would probably be best,” she agrees. “People have been so tense lately, what with all that up there.” She gestures upward. “My mother thought it was another changeover, like when we were little, and I had to remind her of what you told me.”

“The training stuff?” he asks. Érit nods, and Armitage sighs. “Of course. I haven’t heard or seen much of it because I’ve been at work, but I can feel them take off sometimes.” Some of the hangars are close to the shop, and the tarmac is right next door.

“Well, you know we can hear for miles out here, and the sky is big. Everyone’s been really upset over it for one reason or another. Sôrínja’s flock almost went underground the other day. They couldn’t hear me calling them, or maybe they were just too scared to listen.

“Sôrínja just about had a fit. You remember her other son, the older one, who was at the Imperial base when the New Republic came in?”

Armitage nods solemnly.

Érit frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “She was on the floor when I found her, hysterical. I wish they would stop putting those things up there. It's a terror.”

— 

Armitage has had every intention of stopping by the consulate in all the time after Kjára — he really has. But he simply hasn't found a good reason. Ben had asked him to, sure, but that request had been vague and open in the polite way that typically warrants forgetting.

So, not one to impose needlessly, Armitage has simply walked past the consulate every day before and after work, never dropping in. No one has stopped him, hailed him, asked him to speak with them.

But now, in the little corner cafe close to his work, Armitage runs into none other than Ben, the young, fresh-faced Ambassador.

When Ben waves him over and starts asking questions, he figures he might as well stay. He's got a longer lunch break than he needs, anyway, and he's kept his head down long enough.

“So,” Ben says around a bite of his own lunch, “how can we improve?”

Armitage's eyes widen, but Ben waves a dismissive hand before he can even think to begin listing out all the potential areas for improvement. He swallows his food down, then rambles a bit.

“I don’t know the entire history of the Ambassadors you’ve dealt with, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter; those would be our records, not your experience. Your opinion matters, and that’s what we want to focus on — your well-being and how you feel about it.”

Armitage nods slowly, humming. Ben must have mistaken his expression for shock at being asked his opinion. He gets the sense that Ben isn’t very good with conversation in general. Perhaps he hasn’t grown into it yet; he did seem to be about the youngest of whom he saw at that meeting on the beach. He’s always rephrasing and reiterating, repeating his own ideas until they sound right.

Armitage grimaces. “You want to know what makes your public image so bad?” 

Ben nods earnestly, more comfortable with the topic than he would expect of someone familiar with it.

“Well, I’d say the worst part is undoubtedly your practice of warfare,” he decides.

Ben raises his brows. “Warfare?” The pitch of low voice rises considerably, and he sounds genuinely surprised. “It’s not something like—”

“Taking the land, damming up the river, starving people?” he rattles off quickly, counting on his fingers. “Those definitely reflect poorly on the New Republic and the Empire alike, along with countless other things you all may or may not actually be guilty of — but no. They don’t pose as imminent a threat as the lightweight fighters above our heads. People hate that.”

Ben blinks once, taken aback.

They'll never get anywhere if no one says it aloud.

Armitage crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, distancing himself. “I’m sorry, is ‘hate’ a strong word? Because the people here _do_ hate you.”

“No, I know. I’ve… um,” he sighs, shaking his head and apparently searching for a word somewhere in his food. “I can tell. It’s just…” He trails off.

“Just what?” Armitage tries to meet his eyes, but they remain fixed on the table in a manner reminiscent of a child. “Is there a problem? Something else we need to do first before shutting that down?”

“No, nothing like that,” Ben assures, but he doesn’t look so sure. He speaks slowly, in lazy, reluctant bursts. “I’m just… not sure… we can do that.”

Armitage looks him up and down. Classic politics line. No promises. The last time they made a promise was — _of course_ — when Kasit said the military here wasn’t active, and that they would be properly warned of any changes. Armitage can now clearly recognize that for a distinct not-promise.

“You can’t stop the military exercises?” he asks. He wants the simple truth.

“It’s not that they can’t be stopped,” Ben clarifies poorly. “I just don’t think we, as Ambassadors, have that power.”

“Can you move them?”

Ben draws his eyebrows together tightly. “Move them? Like—”

“Like somewhere else?” Armitage leads. “From what I understand, there’s a whole, large planet full of sky for them to fly around in. And space is enormous, isn’t it?”

Ben seems to wake up at that. “Well, flying in space isn’t the same as flying in the near atmosphere, or even within the near magnetosphere. We can’t just—”

“That’s irrelevant,” Armitage interrupts. He does his best to temper his frustration and not get short with Ben; he may be young, but he's still in a position of power, and that shouldn't be threatened. “I know flying is different in space. All I’m saying is that you can move your air exercises somewhere else and enter and exit the atmosphere there, as well. The entries are loud and disruptive, but _miraculously_ , the entire planet is surrounded by space, and you can do it anywhere else.”

Ben has that awful shocked look on his face that people get whenever he says something remotely not-stupid. It may have to do with Armitage's fiery tongue, which he now bites, but he holds firm.

Ben nods slowly. “Two of us are working in conjunction with Command, so I guess I can put in a word.” He shrugs. “No promises, though. Military operations are not what I, personally, am here for. And the two that are involved in that are not in charge of any of it.” 

But just as long as he tries, that’s at least a point in Armitage’s book, if no one else’s. He nods politely, and stands so Ben can finish his lunch.

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

— 

Another week passes with Armitage taking longer and later shifts at the shop. His boss was right to say that the influx of personnel would up his workload, and he's hardly home enough to notice a subtle change.

Érit is the one to point it out while they stroll through town, out looking for a summer gift for her mother. Despite summer’s approach, it’s unseasonably cool. He should have put on another layer before going out.

Érit doesn’t seem to mind, though. “It's been like this the last three days,” she says, smiling bright. “I take it that was all you?”

He hums, confused. “Like what? Cold? What did I do?”

“No, not the cold.” She rolls her eyes. “It's quiet again. No one’s heard anything up there in a week.” She points her chin up to the sky. It’s devoid of all but dark and heavy clouds.

— 

On his way to work the next morning, Armitage finally takes initiative and stops by the consulate to see Ben.

Ben, however, is not in the consulate when he arrives, but on its steps, watching Armitage approach. He lifts a hand.

“Armitage,” he calls, deep voice echoing off the close rows of buildings. He drops his arm to rest lazily on the rail with the rest of him, smiling as Armitage comes to stop at the bottom of the steps. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Ben.” He smiles politely, if stiffly. “I’ve got some good news, and I suppose a ‘thank you’ is in order.”

“A ‘thank you,’ you say?”

Armitage nods with an apologetic grimace. “Your actions have been noted,” he informs Ben. “The exercises haven’t been heard in a few days, so things should be calming down a bit. Back to baseline, rather.”

Ben’s smile grows, rather big for the morning and perhaps beyond his control. The awkwardness he sometimes carries may stem from that lack of control, as well, Armitage thinks. He’s a bad faker.

“I also feel I must apologize for my shortness with you last week,” he adds. “I never meant to be disrespectful.”

Ben knits his brows together. “Shortness?” He shakes his head. “I didn’t notice anything like that.”

“Oh.” He bites his tongue. It wouldn’t be unfair to say he always speaks like that.

“Look, why don’t you come inside with me?” Ben moves toward the door, looking at him to follow. He raises his hands in protest, but Ben insists. “It won’t be long. I just have some ideas I’d like to hear your opinion on.”

“My opinion?” Armitage takes a step back. “Don’t you, um…” He doesn’t want to sound rude, but he seriously doubts personal opinion is part of his role. “Don’t you have people that can give you better advice? Like professionals? Peers?”

Ben shakes his head. “Not any that have better insight than you do. We’ve had this conversation before, and you said it yourself that you’re on both sides of this issue. My teacher always told me that perspective is the key to understanding. And you’ve got a lot of perspective, haven’t you?”

Armitage takes a moment to consider that particular piece of wisdom. Perspective. He has got a lot of it, he supposes. He shrugs.

“Would it be easier if I ask you to answer questions rather than ask you for your opinions?”

Armitage smirks. “I’ve got to leave for work soon, but if can make this quick, then I suppose I can try and offer some perspective for you.”

“Great.” Ben holds the door open for Armitage.

If he’s perfectly honest, Armitage has a feeling similar to hatred for the idea of sentiment. He won’t hate it because that would be sentimental, but sentiment does leave him with a bad taste in his mouth.

And yet, as he steps into the consulate, he chest warms with hope. There’s really no practical difference in the consulate building now versus before this new administration arrived — nothing noticeable, nothing apparent. But it feels different, in a way. It feels like he’s walking into a brand new building he’s never set foot in before.

He takes a moment to breathe and settle himself in this new atmosphere. He’s laid most of his frustrations on his own people, and perhaps unfairly. Nothing on the _fostám_ side has ever so helpful as now. Progress is inevitable now, as long as they strive for it.

He follows Ben upstairs and into an office, noting a chrono on the wall. What he told Ben was true; he is heading to work this morning and can’t be late. But that’s why he’s always early, including today. Still, he hopes Ben doesn’t press him for time.

Ben takes a seat on the far side of a large, metal desk, leaning back and gesturing for him to seat himself. He does, ignoring the datapads and holos in favor of simple conversation.

“So, I’ve been thinking about what you told me about the leadership problem,” Ben begins, frowning as he thinks. “I’m trying to think out a way to implement that, but here’s the problem: who would actually _want_ to come to the table with us?”

Armitage frowns, trying to follow along.

“You would,” Ben gestures to him, “and I’m hopeful that some others would, as well, but we need actual cooperation across the board. _Everyone_ needs to be able to have a say, but you have no system in place for that.”

Armitage nods. It’s true. They’re most concerned with governing themselves, not each other. He opens his mouth to speak, but Ben cuts back in.

“Actually,” he takes a pause, “let me backtrack. It’s maybe not so much the lack of a system that’s the problem, it’s that…” He looks around in the air for the words.

“We don’t _want_ to come to the table because we still think poorly of you,” he fills in. “Individual or collective, it doesn’t matter yet. You and I know that equal footing can be gained, but they don’t see it that way. No one would ever agree to talks on any scale.”

“Exactly.”

Armitage nods. “So what’s your question?” he asks.

“My question?” Ben stares at him blankly.

“If you have specific questions for me, I can answer them quickly. You said you had a few.”

“Figure of speech.” Ben shrugs, and Armitage wonders what this figure of speech he’s never before is. “I don’t really have any specific questions right now, just… how?”

Armitage leans back in his seat and thinks. _How?_ How can they gain favor toward the Republican side?

“You want to bring them to the table for talks so that they feel secure, but they have to feel secure to come for talks. Sound right?”

Ben chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds accurate. Obviously, it’s not as simple as one or the other, otherwise—”

He hums in doubt, crossing his arms.

“What?” Ben asks.

“You might be overthinking it.” He shrugs dismissively, tossing the idea out there. “It usually is quite simple. The answer, that is. If the answer you get _isn’t_ simple, then the question is most likely incorrect. And if the question is as vague as ‘how,’ then we clearly aren’t approaching it correctly. I think what needs to be settled first is: what is your main, focused objective?”

“Security,” Ben answers immediately. “For everyone.”

“Then we shouldn’t find ourselves in this loop of security and diplomacy,” Armitage surmises. “Focus on security, and diplomacy will fit its way in eventually.”

He huffs, wagging a finger at him. “I think you’re onto something, but then how do we ensure security? Specifically security in their opinion, for now. We want that positive image before trying anything.”

“That’s the real question.” He bites his lip, dropping himself deep in thought. All the answers in his head are formless and unintelligible. Inserting a new truth _about_ oneself without inserting oneself? It doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re so smart,” Ben remarks, unprompted and surprising Armitage out of his thoughts.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up to the new topic. “I’m sorry, what?” Did he hear that correctly?

“You’re smart.” He issues the compliment with an air of authority, like his current state is an order. “That’s another good reason to keep you around here.”

Somehow, he gathers his wits enough to close his mouth, not used to such unsolicited comments. Not good ones, anyway.

“Thanks,” he mutters, shifting around in his seat.

“What do you do here for work?” Ben asks, sidetracking them further. “I think you told me you’re an engineer of some sort, right? You think like one.”

“A mechanic,” Armitage corrects automatically.

“That’s a type of engineer.”

“No, it’s not,” Armitage shakes his head vehemently. “I didn’t even go to school for it.” He hates telling people that, but it’s unbeatable at getting them to lay off him. Uncomfortable at the sudden focus on him, he digs his nails into his palm — a bad habit to shift his attention from scrutiny.

“What?” Ben’s voice hitches upward, disbelieving.

Armitage glowers up at him. “What?” he quips back.

“You didn’t go to school for _any_ kind of engineering?” He gazes at him in scrutiny.

“I told you, I’m just a mechanic.” He wraps his arms tight over his chest. “I fix land transports, mostly. It’s nothing special, certainly not anything worth going to school for.”

A laugh bursts forth from Ben, and he shakes his head again with a smile. “Being a mechanic is definitely something most people go to school for,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing. “Engineering school. In fact, most of them would probably complain if you called them mechanics instead of engineers — droids are the mechanics.” He studies Armitage carefully, skeptical. “Are you sure you’ve never taken classes for it?”

“Never set foot in a school in my life,” he confirms.

“Wait.” Ben stares at him hard, almost through him, and Armitage clenches his fists further. “Never? Not any kind of school?”

He knows he hasn’t, but considering the abstract, he remembers an instance. “There was one time when the transport for the children’s school up at the Village broke down. After it was repaired, I had to go with my boss to drop it off in their garage. So, once.”

His jaw hangs low in an impeccable imitation of Sôrínja’s dumb son, and Armitage bites his tongue hard to stay silent about it.

“But you never went to school? Not even as a kid?” Ben asks, incredulous.

“No,” he answers. “I stayed with my mother and grandmother and only came up here occasionally. Mostly to the consulate since they handled all our affairs in relation to the base.”

“Is there a school off-base?” Ben asks, and Armitage shakes his head. “For the kids?” He answers with another shake of the head. “No school?” he asks again.

“No school,” Armitage says forcefully, hoping the answer will stick this time.

“That’s insane,” he mutters. “So you just, what? How did you learn everything you did to get that job?”

“I read a lot.” Armitage shrugs and shifts under Ben’s scrutiny. Really, he listens a lot, but that’s close enough to reading. “When I came to the consulate to find work, they had me train in the shop for a while before I was eligible for pay.”

Ben huffs. “How much did you read on your own? It must have been a lot.”

He fidgets again, his nails biting deeper into his palm. It’s a shame, really, with his mother always fixing them up. “I spent a lot of time studying, I suppose. I had to teach myself to read all I could, but there are lots of diagrams and videos that are better. It wasn’t too hard.”

Ben is gawking, eyes narrowed but still youthfully, wonderfully round. Young as he is, however, his dark gaze carries the weight of many. More penetrative still, it is as sharp as glass, its intimacy exacerbated in this tête-à-tête.

Armitage’s pulse pounds under it, and his stomach roils. “What?” he snaps weakly.

“You taught yourself to read?”

It takes an extra second for the words to break through the blood rush in his ears. He stammers for a moment before averting his gaze and pushing through the block.

“Not well,” he confesses, a little defensive at the questioning, “but well enough. We don’t exactly have extensive and accessible libraries like you do. Most can’t read; we don’t need to, unless our work requires it.”

“So you’re a genius.” Ben’s enthusiasm rings out clearly, but then he amends his tone. “That’s a shame about everyone else, though, that they can’t read.”

It’s weird to be called a genius, but Armitage won’t argue. It’s nothing to do with his ego; it would just waste time. It’s the furthest thing from important right now, and if Ben keeps tracking so far sideways off the security problem — wait.

_That’s it._

“Ben,” he murmurs, pulling his eyes back up to him. “I think I’ve got it.”

Ben hums, intrigued.

It’s so obvious, and he can’t believe he didn’t think of it sooner. He tilts his head, as if make sure the idea doesn’t tumble out, totally untethered, and then squints at Ben, wondering if the idea hasn’t already occurred to him. 

When it feels secure, he puts the word out there. “School.”

“School?”

“Teach the young ones,” Armitage says simply, nodding. At Ben’s critical look, he explains his reasoning, counting the three points on his fingers. “It offers valuable skills to young people who aren’t already committed to their work — or to people of any age, if they are willing — and it breeds trust for the immediate future, _and_ it can serve as an opportunity to reinforce your popularity among the next generation.”

“Genius,” Ben repeats, glowing like he’s on the verge of a laugh.

Armitage allows a smile. “Then you’ll have a foot in the door, and they might listen and see reason when you’re ready to insert that leadership. The next step is logistics. What will be taught? Where? By whom? What methods and materials?”

Ben opens his mouth as if to speak, but falls short, looking troubled. He looks at Armitage sheepishly, eyes less open and mouth set in a small but tight frown.

“What?” Armitage prompts. If there’s a problem, he wants to hear it now rather than have his time wasted.

“You aren’t allowed to enroll in the Republican school on base, are you?” Ben grimaces, and Armitage has to hand it to him: he really makes it sound like a bad thing.

“No one wants their children on base,” he dismisses, rolling his eyes. “It’s really not a loss. And they wouldn’t know what they’re missing with an alternative.”

Nodding, Ben bounces back pretty quickly. “So if we make a school or offer some sort of education, we’ll be doing it out there.”

“In a minimalist and unobtrusive way, yes,” Armitage agrees. “But I’m certainly no expert on schools, obviously, so don’t ask me how that will happen.”

“Right, of course. I’ll have plenty of time to think about all of that on my own. Goodness knows there isn’t much to do around here.” He frowns.

Armitage frowns back. “There’s always lots to be done; you just have to find it.”

“Is that so?”

Armitage nods. “Boredom and chilliness are signs that you need to find more hard work and get to it, according to my grandmother.”

“She sounds like my mom,” Ben smirks. “And my uncle. And basically every other adult during my childhood.”

 _If it ever ended,_ Armitage finishes to himself. “Perhaps they aren’t wrong.” He looks over at the chrono on the wall. Time passed more quickly than he thought it had. He sighs. “Well, I’ve got to get going now, if that’s all.”

Ben nods. “Go on ahead. I’ll walk you out.”

He stands, and Armitage picks his bag up off the floor, leading the way back downstairs. Judging by the few workers that weren’t here before, it’s time for the consulate to get churning again, too.

At the bottom of the stairs, he turns to Ben, but Ben speaks before he can.

“When can we meet again?” he asks quietly, leaning in from his step. “To discuss this school thing further. I think you’ll have some great ideas, whether you believe it or not.”

“Oh.” Armitage takes a small step back, looking around the room. “I’m not sure. You probably do have someone more qualified for that discussion. Are you sure you want—”

“I know what I want,” he says firmly in that too-intent tone that reminds Armitage that despite the youthfulness, he’s dealing with a Capital big-shot from the Galactic Senate. “I want to talk with you at length about this. I want to include you in all of it. You’re unique, and we need your input — it matters a lot to both the Republic and your people. Understood?”

“Understood,” he replies quickly, heart racing at the focused attention. “I’m available most anytime, relatively. I don’t have a communicator, but my shop is by the big hangar for heavy arrivals. Red door, you can’t miss it. Stop by anytime. I’m there most mornings and afternoons.”

“Sounds good. Thank you for your help, Armitage.”

— 

“I feel like I never see you anymore, _makskáro_.”

Armitage glances up from the dressings he’s been tasked with preparing for dinner. His mother is focused on the fish, bending her knife carefully around its thin bones.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “I see you everyday. I live here.”

She smiles softly, but her eyes are pinched at the corners, and she doesn’t look up from her work. “You’re working almost everyday, aren’t you? And staying later than you used to. It’s been a while since you’ve tended the greenhouse with me. I’m always alone in there, now.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, head lowered with guilt. He puts his knife back down to the cutting board, slipping the sharp side through another clovermint stem. “I have been working a lot, you’re right. And I’ve been spending some time with the new Ambassadors, like the _éden_ suggested.”

That piques his mother’s interest, and she raises a brow at him. “Oh?”

He shrugs, playing it off. “It hasn’t really been that much time, but one of them said they want to work with me specifically because — well, you know.” He looks at his mother carefully to gauge her reaction, still slicing down the thin stems of the clovermint between his pinched fingers by feel. “Because I’m like them and I’m serious about working with them to make things better.”

She finally sets down her knife and sighs, leaning her hip against the counter and considering him for a minute.

“You know the significance of what you’re doing, right?” Her voice is dark, deep, and quiet in her solemnity. “Being one of them and one of us is a double responsibility, not a split one, especially when you’re working on such tender relations.”

He brushes the clovermint stems aside and nods once, grabbing the _saím_ next. “I know. I want to be fair to both sides, and I want everyone else to be fair, as well. It wouldn’t do any good if I reflected poorly on either side.”

Méredhe nods. “And you understand that the actions of others will also reflect on you? And that it’s your responsibility, no one else’s, to mitigate the impact of that?”

“I do.”

She hums. “I’m glad you’re keeping your head on straight.”

“Always,” he promises.

With that, she goes back to her part of preparing dinner, and he focuses on his.

He cracks the _saím_ shell with the butt of his knife and pries the dark orange cloves out onto the counter. The heady spice tingles on his bare fingers, but he quickly crushes it and scrapes it into a bowl.

He brushes the broken bits of shell aside and places the rosy-colored _mésjê_ bud on the board to begin painstakingly separating the veins from the petals. Most of the petals are deveined when his mother speaks again.

“Will you be gone even more often now that they’ve decided you’re the one?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. We just had a new idea to improve the image of the New Republic, but we have no idea how to implement it.”

“What’s the idea?” She dumps the slivers of fish on a bed of wide, waxy _súl_ leaves and slides it over to him.

“Teaching,” he declares. He brushes the clovermint and _mésjê_ into the mixing bowl with the _saím_ and tosses it together. “They don’t teach the same way we do. Instead of following their parents or apprenticing under someone with new work, everyone learns a lot of skills. _Then_ they decide what sort of work to do and learn more about it.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so different from what we do,” she remarks.

He shakes his head and sprinkles the mix over the fish. “It’s a lot different, trust me. Their kids spend a good part of the day all learning together under one teacher, and they do that through their entire childhood. I don’t think we can do it that way, for obvious reasons, but I think we can get close for simplicity’s sake.”

Finished, he puts the bowl down and wraps the _súl_ leaves around the food, packing it tightly. “And they teach a lot of history, which I think we may be able to cut out. And much of the math and science, as well. Language is important; I think most of us should be able to speak and read Basic so we aren’t relying on others. And it wouldn’t have to be for children only. In fact, I think adults should be the main focus for—”

“You’ve clearly thought about this a lot,” his mother interrupts, giving him a look. She takes the wrapped food from him and puts it in the oven to cook.

“Loads,” he confesses. “I really would like to get it done. The sooner, the better.”

“I can tell it’s very important to you. I take it as a ‘yes’ that you’ll be spending more time there?” Her smile doesn’t look as real as Armitage was expecting. He thought she would be proud of him choosing what he wanted to do with his life.

“You don’t want me spending more time on base?”

She averts her eyes, focusing instead on grabbing a cloth to clean their work area. “I’m fine with it. I’m glad you’re following this path. It’s clearly good for you.”

“But not for you.”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel, Armitage.” Her words rush out quickly, unimportantly, but snag on him anyway.

He blinks, taken aback. “ _Nílme tôtue an_ Armitage.” His words hang heavy in the air. He’s always been _makskáro_ to her, the name _Armitage_ reserved for the _fostáme_.

She looks at him again, and he doesn’t know what to make of her pursed mouth and lowered brow. “You’ve never been _Armitage_ as much as you are now. Remember it to be one of their names.”

He chuckles humorlessly. “It’s rather more Imperial, if you ask them.”

“And your _father_ was one of those Imperial monsters,” she spits. “Why must you get so hung up on what those people have to say? You think I knew anything about the New Republic when I named you? They didn’t come along for another four years, and they are still _fostáme_. They are all _fostáme_. There’s no distinction to us.”

The words hit Armitage’s ears, but not his mind. He’s stuck on that first part. “A monster?”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth tightens. “ _Makskáro_ ,” she warns.

“No.” He crosses his arms. “Why would you call him a monster?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You used to call him strong, and now you call him a monster. You knew him, but I never have. What are you trying to make me believe?”

“A man can be both strong and a monster, just as an arkto can.” By her face, she didn’t want to say that, but any further emotion she may feel is locked away from his imploring gaze. She turns back to her cleaning. “Conversation over. Keep telling me about your school plan.”

Armitage stares at her for a minute more before saying anything. He doesn’t want to leave the topic of his father unresolved, but he’s not sure he wants to hear any more from her, either.

“I don’t have much to say about it,” he mumbles. “There are lots of details to be addressed, so don’t expect me to spend a lot of time here.”

“I won’t,” is all she says, and Armitage’s thoughts are quick to scheme against him to kill the stifling silence.

He has so many questions, thoughts, and feelings, none of which should be said aloud right now, and he clenches his jaw shut so he doesn’t get into trouble. 

What did she mean by _monster_? Was that specifically aimed at his father, or the Empire in general? If it was him, did he play some role in the destruction of their people? Was he manning a gun? Giving orders? Was it none of those things at all, and he did something entirely different?

Maybe she was expressing a more general hatred and took it out on his father. She did seem very upset that he was spending his time with the _fostáme_ , and could have been blaming it on the source of his mixed heritage. She could also be upset that one side seems to be winning over the other, and it’s not hers. But then why would she raise him this way? She told him that she gave him this name for exactly this reason.

In the end, Armitage decides not to read too far into it. Thoughts like that are a trap, and he shuts them out.

— 

The cold snap is gone, and the rains have started. The droplets fall in droves, turning every outdoor excursion into a swim. Armitage and Érit elect to stay inside to avoid the thickest of the mud while they review her reading.

“How do you like it so far?”

Érit sets the borrowed datapad on the dining table. “It’s honestly one of the most boring things I’ve read in my life, but I’ve learned lots of new words. Like ‘ephemeris.’ I bet you don’t even know an ephemeris is,” she brags.

Armitage laughs. “I certainly don’t, but I’d bet it’s not a word you’d want your mother to hear.”

“It’s a star chart, but it has no visuals, only numbers.” Her brows knit together and she narrows her eyes. “Degrees, actually, which I’ve learned aren’t really numbers, apparently? I don’t know where to start with that.”

He hums. “They are sort of numbers, but you’re right. They’re more like a measurement. A ratio that you can use to measure and divide something ill-defined or infinite.”

She puts her elbows up on the table and rests her chin in her hands. “I have no idea what that last word means, Armitage.”

“It’s like _sîm-sîm_ or _sîm ôtue_ , like when there are more things than you can possibly count. Like numbers. You can’t count all the numbers. As soon as you count the next one, there’s another.” He points out the window at the raindrops. “Similar to counting those. All the raindrops can be split into two.”

“Oh, no,” she sighs, covering her face with her hands. “Don’t drag me down that path. Infinite just means a lot, doesn’t it?”

“That’s how most people use it,” he concedes with a shrug. “But anyway, degrees are a measurement for parts of a whole. If you divide a circle into three-hundred sixty equal parts, then each part is a degree. For circles, anyway. They’re counted in numbers, but used like meters or miles. A mile itself isn’t a number, but you can have a number of them. Make sense?”

Érit squints dubiously. “I have no idea why someone would divide a circle into that many parts, but I suppose it makes sense in a weird sort of way.

“Anyway,” she sing-songs, “as I was telling you — before you gave me a headache with that explanation —, an ephemeris shows you where the planets or stars or systems or galaxies, or _whatever_ you’re looking for, are in relation to one point in the galaxy. And they can also tell you where they were in the past, or where they’ll be in the future. Every inhabited place in the galaxy has an ephemeris of its own. Except us, apparently, because we can’t see all those things.”

He hums. “I’m sure the library has one. Or the pilots. That stuff would likely be automated, so I’m sure a computer has run it.” 

“Maybe.” She looks out the window wistfully. “I wonder what it looks like from here, without all the clouds. It’s just black, isn’t it? With bits of fire? It sounds scary.”

Armitage watches the clouds with her. “I don’t know. I think it would be nice.” 

He’d be lying to say he hasn’t dreamt of it. The stars, the blazing, fiery sun burning hot on his skin, the frozen abyss of space. Everything that lies beyond. Worlds upon worlds upon worlds. New names, new faces, and every little universe with new people and new truths is just credits away.

But he can’t get so far ahead of himself, not here with Érit. He looks back over at her. “I had no idea you would pick up reading Basic Aurebesh so quickly. I still have a lot of trouble with it, personally.”

“I’ll admit I was slacking off at first,” she smiles ruefully. “I didn’t like reading that much before because I never understood the point. All the things mother would have me read were boring. And then you brought me those first books, and they were _so confusing_ , all in lines with one letter after another.

“When I started to get the hang of it, I still thought they were boring, but I read as much as I could stomach. It wasn’t until I started my second apprenticeship,” she and Armitage share a look, “that I realized what I was missing.”

“Second apprenticeship?” he asks. “Already?”

She nods. “One of the sirens has need for a replacement scribe. Last one went off and married one of the _Séltysîl_ and now she lives way up there in the mountains, I guess. The siren needs weather reports, fishing reports, harvesting reports, all that written up. Who knew they did so much? They eat for free, though.”

He huffs. “So you made good on your escape from that potential marriage to Sôrínja’s son, huh?”

“As fast as I could,” she laughs. “I really would rather write about clouds all day than care for him.”

The idea hits Armitage like a brick. “Say, Érit…”

She hums.

“This is going to sound crazy, but bear with me.” He puts a hand up at her skeptical look, and she nods for him to go on. “How would you feel about teaching Basic to some people here in town?”

— 

Ben follows through on his promise to stop by the shop a few days after their meeting at the consulate.

Armitage is inside, working on the latest arrivals: a small set of what appear to be children’s toys, miniature landspeeders, each small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He wasn’t told exactly what the problem is, only that they don’t run like they did before they were brought to Arkanis.

He’s huddled over the set of four, examining the underbellies before taking them apart, when the door behind him opens. He keeps his head down, expecting it to simply be his boss, but then a different voice calls out a greeting to him.

“Hey, Armitage.” That’s unmistakably Ben; the unusually deep tone can’t be heard from anyone else.

He turns around to see the door closing and Ben taking down his hood, dripping water in front of the door. He returns the greeting.

“Good morning, Ben.”

“Afternoon, actually. I’m not interrupting anything important, am I?” Ben walks over to his station under the lamp and looks over his shoulder at the little models.

“Not really,” Armitage dismisses with a brief wave of his hand. “I can probably do this in my sleep. I’m just trying to figure out what these things are supposed to be doing that they aren’t. No one ever fills out their order forms correctly. We can still talk.”

“Oh, okay.” Ben perks up, studying the toys. “What are those?”

Armitage suppresses a smile at Ben’s childlike curiosity. It’s an intriguing balance he holds between the foreign government dignitary and the youthful… whatever he does besides this.

“They’re model landspeeders of some sort. The owner only said they don’t work like they’re supposed to, so I think they should be floating or moving or something.” He gestures to the stool at the far end of the table. “Pull that up and have a seat. Things are about to get boring.”

Ben chuckles and does as he’s told, placing the stool next to his and sitting nearly elbow-to-elbow with him.

“So,” Armitage starts, grabbing a few small sets of tiny tools and grimacing at them. “Have you had any other ideas regarding the school?”

He doesn’t particularly enjoy working with such tiny objects, but he’s been told a few times that he’s virtually the only human mechanic here who can.

“Yeah, I’ve done some thinking,” Ben sighs, chin in hand. “There isn’t much else to do. I totally get your thing about finding work, but I can’t find anything that isn’t already being done by someone else. It’s a pretty slow job, so far, even with our duties split. I imagine there won’t be much for me to do until we flesh out these plans, you know?”

“Yeah,” Armitage agrees idly.

He pops the casing off one of the toys easily enough with his bare hands to take a look inside. Standard electromagnet. He picks up another one of the toys and looks for some sort of button or switch to turn it on. It takes a little while to find, hiding in plain sight on the manufacturer’s logo. He clicks it and sets it down on the floor.

Nothing.

“That’s a pretty lame toy,” Ben remarks.

Armitage can’t help but laugh as he picks it back up. “No kidding. No wonder they want it fixed. I’m surprised no one’s smashed it to bits. I see that a lot more than you’d think. People love to break things when they’re angry.”

“Huh.” Ben leans over to look at the toy. “Well then, why doesn’t it work?”

“That’s the question.” He places it back on the table. “I didn’t hear the engine turn at all, so my bet is they didn’t research Arkanis before they came here.” 

Ben hums questioningly. 

“The magnetic field is weird here, or something. I don’t think anyone’s really researched it, but I see it sometimes when people bring in those old types of engines that use the planet’s natural magnetic field to turn. It’s not a bad design, but some worlds are just a little too different from others. So when they calibrate the engines for one weird world, they don’t always work on other weird worlds.”

Ben gets a weird look on his face — sick, or distant? —, and Armitage elects to ignore it. He doesn’t particularly feel like getting too deep into that.

“I usually just replace this wire here,” he narrates, pointing to the exposed engine in the toy he’s already taken apart. “It forms the coil. A current runs through it to create a charge, and one side tries to move toward the earth while the other tries to move away. That’s what makes it spin, and that natural conversion of energy is used to make the rest of the speeder work. Of course, it has a lot of different parts that it uses to convert different amounts of energy for different functions, but we’re just focusing on that main part.”

He grabs a screwdriver and extracts the engine in its entirety out of the toy.

“Are you really, _really_ sure you didn’t go to engineering school?” It sounds like a real question, and Ben looks confounded.

“I am really, _really_ sure I didn’t go to engineering school,” Armitage confirms.

He shakes his head in denial and gestures to the little engine laid out on the work desk. “So where does that get power from? Is there a battery in there? I don’t see it.”

“The battery is in the case, but that’s not really a source of energy. Not the way most people think of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Armitage takes a deep breath, thinking of how to word it. “That battery holds a charge, yes, but that’s only half of it. It wants to balance out; nothing wants to remain negative or positive. A battery doesn’t simply store useable energy, just like this desk doesn’t store useable energy. It holds potential.

“If the table disappeared, and all the tools on it were left in midair, it would fall — but both the tools and the planet are attracting each other because they all have mass, but _also_ the tools would not go through the planet just as the planet would not go through the tools. They meet each other in the middle, performing the complementary amounts of work. Everything has a balance.”

“I get that,” Ben nods. “I heard that a lot in, um, school.”

“Right, so the battery has a potential for energy, but it’s just being held in a cell, nothing happens. It’s all no more than potential — until you let it interact with something that could balance it out, like the earth below our feet.”

“The energy goes to the earth?” Ben asks, watching him intently.

“No,” he resists a chuckle. The little lesson is being drawn out far beyond what he intended, but he entertains Ben anyway. “The potential in the earth rises up to meet it. They both sort of reach for each other to find a balance.” He gestures clumsily with his hands, drawing his fingertips close to show the way the two reach out to each other.

“So you make a circuit to link the battery and give those electrons room to run, unleashing the potential _and_ , at the same time, using that energy, the joining of the battery and the earth through the coil, to make things move. They already want to do this; it’s in their nature, and _that_ is the energy. We just make their nature work for us by capturing their intent with things like batteries.”

Ben hums, surveying the work desk and Armitage in turn. “That’s a lot like what I learned in school. It wasn’t exactly science, but it was the same concepts.”

“What subject was it, then, if it wasn’t science?”

Ben chews a lip, glancing back down at the little engine that Armitage hasn’t done anything with. He’s quiet for a moment. “Biology.”

“That’s a science,” Armitage points out.

“Not the way I learned it, I guess.” He looks up at Armitage, eyes almost... searching? “It was kind of spiritual.”

He hesitates, and not entirely because of the subject matter. “That doesn’t sound like any of the sorts of schools I’ve ever heard of.”

“No,” Ben agrees simply. That strange feeling of being on the cusp of a cliff hits him, but it disappears when Ben looks back to the models. “What are you gonna do next?”

Armitage bites his lip. “I’m going to find the right balance against the earth.” He quickly grabs the toy engine to pull it apart.

While he works, he takes the opportunity to feel Ben out for talking about the school and making some suggestions — one in particular.

“Like you, I’ve been doing some thinking on the school.” He pulls down his hutch filled with spools of wire of all material, size, and grade, looking for something nice and thin. “I think our primary focus should be on teaching Galactic Basic, speaking and reading, if not also writing. Most people here don’t really need to be able to write, but reading is a must. Would that be okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Whatever you want. We do need to include a bit of history, like a brief rundown of the galaxy. We can just slide that in with the reading.”

He pauses in his tinkering. “They can choose to learn that if they want. I was thinking they could read stories, something fun to keep them interested.”

“They can do that,” Ben mutters, back to his stilted and awkward tone. He must not be keen on the idea, so Armitage amends it.

“How about they learn with the teachers on history, then they can take home materials to read stories or whatever they’d like to at home.”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to take anything for free.”

_Oh. Right._

“Of course,” Armitage says, shrugging and fitting the little pieces back together. “Maybe frame history to be more enjoyable — just an idea. What about teachers, though? Do you think you can supply that?”

“Maybe a few, but I really don’t know who would be willing to go out into the IPZ. Those guys I ran into out there were pretty hostile. I can have someone send out a memo.”

It’s unfortunate, of course, but Armitage jumps on the opening. “I think I may have a teacher lined up already,” he drawls meekly. “They know Marlánysîl and Basic, and they can read. Would you be open to using Marlánysîl teachers?”

Ben lights up. “Yes, I think you’d make a great teacher.”

Armitage laughs uncomfortably. “Very funny.”

“What? No, I’m serious,” Ben insists.

Armitage turns to look at his face. He does look serious. _What kinds of drugs is he on?_

“A lot, but it’s mostly just vitamins.”

_Oh, god._

“I said that aloud, didn’t I?” he whispers, cringing, and Ben nods. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it in any sort of bad way. It’s just—”

“It’s a thing people say, I get it. Don’t worry about it,” Ben smiles. “I’m perfectly serious and sober when I say I think you’re perfect for the role. Unless that’s not what you meant?”

“It isn’t, no.” He shakes his head minutely. “I had someone else in mind. A young woman. She’s unmarried, for now, no obligation. She spends her time apprenticing and learning all sorts of new skills. I know her personally and would not trust anyone before her for the role.”

“I suppose that could work.” Ben shrugs and leans back. “But I’m not taking back what I said. You’re smart, self-taught, fluent in both languages, and you just explained the hell out of your work.”

Armitage grimaces. “I see what you mean, but I’m afraid that might not work. It would be a lot like you going out there to teach yourself.”

“I’d do it,” he suggests casually.

“You know they very well may not want you there, right? Just like many of them don’t want me there, and I was _born_ there.”

Ben shrugs again. “We can work around it. Maybe the schooling won’t be done in town, but some place more neutral.”

“There’s no neutral territory,” he dismisses immediately. “It’s either yours-by-force or it’s _not yours_. Any place off the base is considered not yours. They’d never be happy to have you out there. Anywhere.”

“But who’s to stop you from being out there? And I’m an Ambassador. Can’t I accompany you?”

“You _could_ ,” he concedes, “but—”

“The land away from town would be safer, right?” he presses. “And—”

“And the idea is ridiculous,” Armitage declares.

“But is it definitively wrong?” He spreads his arms in a challenge.

Armitage stares at Ben, openly mocking. He shakes his head silently and continues with the engine in his hands while Ben keeps talking.

“Are you going to answer the question?” Ben taunts playfully. “Hmm, to admit defeat, or to lie... Which will it be? It’s a good idea, and you know it.”

Armitage does his best to shut down any twitch of a smile, but he can’t quite hold it back forever. A bunch of young folks teaching classes out in the country to people that in all likeliness hate them and were raised to do so? It’s so stupid that it may just work. It’ll certainly be a curiosity.

“What kind of education do you even have, anyway?” Armitage goads. “You said it’s spiritual biology or something?”

Ben laughs. “I’ve been taught a lot of things,” he dodges, not sly in the least.

Armitage would give him a skeptical once-over, but he really does need to finish this little engine and see if it works. He’d taken a brief look at the mechanical functions, but they seemed standard and modern enough, so hopefully this simple fix will do the trick.

“Tell me about all these lots of things. We have time, and you said yourself that you were bored around here.” He nudges his elbow out for a soft hit, twitching back when he feels a light shock. It doesn’t hurt, but he shouldn’t really be touching things so carelessly in the shop.

Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He heaves a sigh, eyes glossing over. “Well, I went to a few different schools. The first was just at home. My mom had a tutor come by to teach me privately. She eventually got pretty sick of me always being around, though, and thought I would do better with other kids my age, so she put me in a traditional school. 

“It was all the same stuff I was learning at home, so it wasn’t too different. It was mostly math and history, a lot of mandatory reading and writing. We did a little bit of science, but nothing like what you’re doing.” He points to Armitage’s work.

“Then, something happened, and I had to leave that school for another one. It was a special school, only for gifted students, and it was kind of far from home. It was basically a boarding school, I guess. I lived there most of the year and went back home over the summer, sometimes for holidays, too. I was eight when I went, so this school is where I’ve spent the vast majority of my education.”

“So you are clever, but you just don’t know a lot of science?” Armitage spares a him a look now, having pieced the toy back together.

He’s smiling, but it looks forced, like a frown overcorrected. He watches carefully as the toy landspeeder is set on the floor and switched on. It lifts from the ground and floats in a few large figure eights, whirring away as it is presumably supposed to.

“I don’t know nearly as much science as you do.” Ben shakes his head idly, still watching the toy speeder. “Like I said, it was a lot of spiritual stuff. We learned all the basics, of course, but we spent most of our time learning history and how to do good in the world.”

“Sounds like a nice school,” Armitage says.

“Kind of,” he mutters, smile abandoned. “It left me with more questions than answers, really. I’m supposed to be graduating around now, but the exam is just whatever you make it. It’ll happen when it happens, y’know. The other Ambassadors are from the same school.”

 _So that’s how they got their job,_ Armitage thinks. He picks up the toy and turns it off. “The older ones, are they your teachers?”

Ben nods.

“And they’re working with you on this diplomacy project — is that your exam? Is it a political school?”

He sits up, having fallen into a slouch. “In some ways. We do have close ties to the Galactic Senate, as well as other branches. We have a similar status to Justices, but on a larger scale.”

Armitage, not knowing anything about the Senate, Justices, or other branches of the government, just hums. “So Arkanis is like a little practice project to you?”

“Not as little as you’d think,” Ben chagrins.

Armitage isn’t sure what that means, but he also thinks he isn’t supposed to. He lets it go. “So what have you taken away from this spiritual political justice school that you can share with the young minds of the Marlánysîl?”

“I know a lot about government action,” Ben says with confidence. “I can teach them all about how to get what they can want. Peacefully.”

“Alright, then.” Armitage quickly takes back to the toys to fix them in quick succession, replacing the batteries and coils in automatic motions. “Sounds like we have a plan. A bad one, but a plan nonetheless. You can teach people how to organize and deal with your government. Érit, that’s my, um, _friend_ who will be teaching Basic and, according to you, history.”

“Some history,” Ben reinforces. “I can teach that, too.”

“Great.” Armitage smiles. “And I’ll teach…”

“Science and math, obviously,” he supplies.

“Do they really need that much science and math, though?” he questions. “I’m certainly not expecting everyone to need to know how to make something like this.” He lifts a toy for show.

“Then just teach them the math and science they need to know,” Ben reasons, “like how to read star charts and navigate space.”

“They will _not_ be navigating space.”

“Eh, we’ll figure it out. I can’t be out there without you, anyway. You’re joining in whether you like it or not.”

— 

_The fire is quickly engulfing the land. It spreads to take over the barn and garden, cracks the walls of the greenhouse, and licks up the walls of their home. Armitage can only watch in horror as his childhood home is destroyed, taken by the unearthly blaze, flames that were birthed from that falling star. There’s a chip missing from the ridge behind the house, left behind by its fall. He doesn’t know where the star is now, but he can feel it coming for him, and the fear freezes his bones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this good? I can't tell, lmao. If there's anything that needs explaining, or if you just have a question or a comment or something you'd like to see expanded, let me know in the comments! My phone makes a very pleasant sound every time y'all do that, and then I make a very unpleasant sound in response. I'll try and respond to them all in a timely manner! (By which I mean I'll squeal at the comment, read the comment, set my phone down for a few minutes to process, read the comment again, gush about it in my head, and then open up a draft to start replying, not have any idea what to say back, closing the draft, leaving my phone for a bit while I process it _again_ , and then coming back and replying when I finally feel I can do more than just smile dumbly and scream internally.)
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/) (which gets checked), a [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking) (which I am on most often now), and a [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/nymeriaking) (which does not really get used at all). Y'all are all welcome to talk to me on these platforms.


	8. îdh-syr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are all so long, lmao sorry. Another 10k.

Eyes closed, Ben draws in a deep breath. Ozone, bright and crisp, is all he can smell.

“Because it’s not raining.”

He opens his eyes.

Armitage is watching him curiously, face alight with amusement. He has the day off from the shop, and Ben can see it in his dress. Reserved, martialesque looks abandoned, he looks much more like he did at Kjára, like all the others here in town.

His hair is mostly loose, braided only near the ends and decorated with a handful of shiny ornaments. The usual cloak hangs over his shoulders, secured by the usual pin, but instead of a standard-issue navy tee underneath, he boasts reds and oranges and violets all mixed together.

“That smell in the air,” he says, gesturing toward the open sky with his chin. “You can smell it when it should be raining, but isn’t.” He pulls their boat further down the canal with ease.

They got through the busiest part of the market a few minutes ago, and the town around them has been dwindling steadily away as they make their way out.

"How do you know it should be raining?" Ben asks.

Armitage smiles down at his feet, shaking his head. "I saw sunlight a while back." He keeps pulling them along, quickly and quietly.

"Sunlight?" When Armitage nods, he prompts for more. "What does that mean?"

"Sunlight begets a chill that begets rain. That's how it always happens." He looks up, pale eyes flickering over his face. "And I can feel it. In the air, and in my ears. It feels like a vacuum, and like something's crawling in my skin."

Ben empathizes too easily, and the description makes his breath hitch. "That sounds ominous."

Armitage frowns. "It does. But it’s no matter. We’ve never had much of a problem with lightning. The rain comes back to stop any fires that start.”

The dream flashes through his mind — the blaze, the rising river, the void —, and he's starkly reminded of their first run-in on the street, when just a touch catapulted him into it. He bites his lip, and watches Armitage guide the boat. It's doubtful that anything in the dream would come to fruition so simply, but the talk of real-life torrents and fires won't sit still in the back of his mind.

After a minute, the question pulls itself out of Ben's mouth. “Are you superstitious?”

“Depends on what you consider superstition,” Armitage mutters, looking away and peering into the waters below. His tone is tight, and his words are short, and whatever twinges in chest echoes itself in Ben's. “I don’t think weather patterns constitute the supernatural, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He nods and huffs a short laugh to ease the tension. “Okay,” he appeases, leaving it at that. He should've left that subject alone.

“Did you mean to insinuate that my perception of the weather is untruthful?” Armitage still isn’t looking at him. The smattering of beads in his hair flash and glint as he turns head every which way, taking in their surroundings. 

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

Armitage eyes him briefly, expression unreadable. “We’re almost there. I understand well enough that you don’t mean to belittle, but others won’t always.”

“In other words, watch my mouth,” he recites back. “Got it.”

Armitage nods. “The house hosts _desjélra suróamár_ — a prayer well. Don’t touch it or any of the statues. And don’t touch Érit, either.”

He guides the boat toward the wall and reaches a hand out without looking. His fingers brush against the wall of the canal as they drift slowly along, and he catches a hook, slowing them enough to anchor the boat to the wall.

“Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything,” Ben mutters back.

Armitage hums an affirmative and hops out of the boat quickly. “Her father is a prolific fisherman. They own all this land, and her mother sells the hay in winter. They aren’t the sort of people you want to rile up; their opinions are held in high regard.”

Ben steadies the boat and climbs out carefully, stepping off the stone and onto the grass with Armitage. “How do you know her?” he asks. “Work? Family?”

He looks up at the large, isolated hill and the house that stands upon it. It’s large, larger than even the houses in the officers’ village on base. Two stories, it seems. There isn’t much around it, either, just a thick wrap-around garden. Beyond that, he sees only open land filled with tall, lush grass and distant blue-violet fields.

“Family,” Armitage answers briskly, beginning the walk up to the manor. “Her father, Áren, worked on my grandfather’s ship. When it wrecked, my grandfather died, and Áren did a lot for my grandmother after that.”

Ben hums, following a step behind him. So their families must be close, he reasons. It makes sense that he would trust this girl, Érit, above all others.

Armitage continues. “He gave my mother her first fishspear, too, which she used to kill her very first arkto.”

He glances over at Armitage, searching his face for any sign of a joke, but he’s as stern as always with his gaze set ahead. “Your mother has killed one of those things?”

“It broke the door off the barn,” he dismisses easily. “You heard her tell the story at Kjára, albeit in our language.”

He thinks back to that night, all that chanting and singing, the woman who howled, covered in paint.

“It had its claws in a capra that had just kidded,” Armitage recounts. “She was none too happy, of course. She grabbed the spear off the wall, called it outside, and ran all the way to the woods before it caught up to her. Then she turned around and put the spear through its belly. The glass broke inside, and it took hours to die. Once it did, she brought its body back to the barn and left it there so other arktos wouldn’t get the same idea.”

He swallows, remembering the size of those statues around town. A beast that big can’t just be dragged, not by a woman that size.

“And what happened to the capra that it attacked?” he asks.

Armitage wags his head in an unfamiliar gesture, perhaps like a shrug. “It was sold to the butcher so it wouldn’t get sick. The butcher about had a fit when she told him an arkto had come all the way up to her house, and then another one when she told him she’d killed it herself. It’s a shame the meat was spoiled; I bet he would’ve loved to carve that thing up.”

“I’ll bet,” Ben agrees, breathless.

Finally up the hill, they reach a stone footpath that runs up to and around the house and its garden.

“How old was she when that happened?”

“I think around fifteen of your years, or so? I’m not sure of the exact math.”

And with that information dropped so nonchalantly, Armitage comes to a stop just in front of the tall door and lets out a sharp whistle.

Reeling, Ben shakes his head. He hopes never to see one of those things in person. Maybe that's why the base is walled, he thinks, wishing he were joking.

While they wait, he surveys the house. _Not the sort of people you want to rile up_ , Armitage had said. By all appearances, he's right. The column supports are all smooth stone, a different kind than he's seen anywhere else, and pink instead of white. The decoratively-trimmed and flowering plants running along the walls also scream of wealth in this relatively wild place. They must hire all their work out.

The door before them opens, and a young woman steps out, greeting Armitage immediately and rattling off some words he doesn't understand. She turns to him next, and he's impressed by her height; it nearly matches his own.

He reaches a hand out. “Good afternoon. Ben, an Ambassador at the consulate.”

“Érityë,” she smiles, ignoring the hand. “Nice to meet you.” Her accent is noticeable, but pleasant nonetheless, and where he had thought that Armitage’s clothing was different, Érit’s is in a whole new realm. 

The same oranges and reds and violets mix and damask over her dress, its large flounce, and its skirt, stopping abruptly at the top of her boots. But more, she’s decorated. The beads in Armitage’s hair are modest, to say the least. She has more braids, more jewelry, more _everything_. He takes it in stride.

“Nice to meet you, as well." He shoves his hands into his pockets, remembering the _don't touch anything_ warning, then takes them out, remembering his basic manners. His arms dangle at his sides, awkwardly conspicuous, and Armitage gives him a look. He ignores it in favor of Érit. “I’ve heard lots of good things about you.”

She hums, stepping between them and starting back down the path they took. Armitage waves a hand for Ben to follow first.

“I’ve heard promising things about you in return, Ben," Érit says as they each catch up and take a spot at her elbow. "Armitage tells me that the school was your idea, that you want to educate our people so we can avoid your intervention?” 

The idea wasn’t only his, but Ben nods anyway, tossing Armitage another look. If he catches it, he doesn’t show it. “For the most part, yes,” he confirms. “We’re very non-interventionist. Naturally, the last thing we want to do is cause more problems between us.”

“Very good,” she remarks. She almost sounds as though she’s interviewing Ben more than he’s interviewing her, but he didn’t travel all this way for that.

They round a corner of the house, and he flips the tables swiftly. “Armitage tells me you can read Basic — is that true?”

“I can.” She nods. “He brings me books to practice. Most people here can’t read anything; they don’t really need to. But I can also read Marlánysîl, along with some other scripts. One of the sirens offered me a post with her.”

“A real scholar, then, huh?” he acknowledges. She is interesting, at least. “I can’t technically offer any pay until I get approval, just so you know, but I think you would do very well with teaching.”

He looks over at her, and she is looking back, but she doesn’t say anything. The garden here is denser, wider, and they soon pass a small statue of some creature he’s never seen. He wonders if she even cares about money. He gives her another angle.

“If we could get more of you to be fluent — or close to it — in Basic, then I think relations would be much easier and more personal.” He wonders briefly about past attempts. “Have any of the Ambassadors before us ever bothered to learn Marlánysîl?”

Érit makes a negative-sounding noise and looks to Armitage, who squashes the idea immediately.

“If you did, you would be the first,” he says plainly, palms open. “I feel the need to warn you, however, that no one’s even programmed a droid correctly to learn our language. It’s very foreign, and no one is willing to spend enough time on it.”

Of course. No attempts.

The turn another corner, now having circled to the back of the house. The garden grows swiftly back here. Various flowers and plants he’s never seen before display deep shades of green and blue. They don’t delicate at all. Rather, they’re thick in the petals and leaves, growing tall on thick stems. Mixed in with them, he sees a couple more little statues made of that pink stone of the columns. 

“Not to mention,” Armitage coughs, “there are plenty of people that would be loathe to hear you speak our tongue. They want it to be ours, and ours alone.”

“That’s understandable,” Ben allows, somewhat distracted by even more statues appearing as they walk on. All sorts of animals — sweet ones, frightful ones, ugly ones — hold their position in stone.

“Do you know where I would be doing this teaching?” Érit asks. “I can go onto base, but I don’t think most people would be willing to go there.”

“We’re working on it.” He gives her a deferring wave. “That’s really more up to you all than to me, since it’s your people’s education.”

“That’s a good point.” Érit hums thoughtfully. “Would I just be teaching Basic, or something else, too? Like we don’t know much about your history, only your history with us.”

“History would be perfect.” Ben nods, looking again to Armitage, who nods as well. It feeds into the purpose of the school exactly. “One thing I’ve wanted to focus on is how you all can learn from us, from both our successes and mistakes. We want you to be able to come to the table as one unified team just like we do so it’s easier to help you with what you need.”

“That sounds quite ideal.” Érit smiles. She brings them all to a slow stop in what’s merged from a garden into a grove.

The plants are reaching over their heads, now. The statues here are all arranged to face the center, where a low well sits. That must be the thing Armitage was telling him about.

“You would likely still have time for your apprenticeship, too,” Armitage adds quietly. “It wouldn’t take too much time out of your day.”

Érit nods, pleased, and rattles off a few more words for only Armitage to understand. She seems genuinely excited, in her own way, at the prospect of empowering her people, and Ben is glad. For such a new plan, and something he’s never done before besides, it seems to be off to an alright start.

She turns to Ben and nods. “I like this plan.”

“Great. If there’s anyone you know who wants to learn Basic for any reason, go ahead and let them know that we’d like to teach them,” Ben tells her. “And if anyone just wants to have more power or say in what we do for you, then learning can help them, too. I’ll see what I can do about your governance on our end, even talk to the others about voting and such.”

She has a couple more words for Armitage, and he responds in Basic.

“Voting is when many people decide what should be done for all of them.”

She hums in understanding and turns back to Ben with an interested look on her face. “I can’t wait to start.”

— 

They all go their separate ways: Armitage goes home to work with his mother, Érit stays home as Armitage says she is wont to do, and Ben goes back to the consulate to find secretary K’Mondha.

The consulate is as quiet as it ever is in its afternoon peak. A few workers drone at their tasks, and a few others seem to have no tasks at all. He goes upstairs to Vara’s office and knocks on the open door.

Looking up from her work screens, she appraises him. “What do you need, darling?”

“I have a request, but I’m not sure how you all would go about it here.” She hums for him to continue, and he takes a step inside. “If we wanted to start a social program for the Marlánysîl, how do we get that going?”

She blinks. “I’m sorry. A _what_ , exactly?” She gestures for him to take a seat by her desk.

“Like an education program,” he explains once he’s gotten settled. “Teach them Basic, get them to assimilate a bit more.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. We don’t do anything like that.”

“No, I know you don’t right now,” he clarifies quickly. “I’m trying to start one, but we need resources. You know, learning materials, access to the holonet or a library, maybe some nominal—”

“No, I think _you_ misunderstand, sir,” Vara interrupts in her unerringly sweet tone. “Those are not things we can fund with the public resources we are given. Every nation must accrue their own funds for such ventures. Granted, there are some assistance programs for needier nations, but those are sparse and _only_ for nations of the New Republic. They don’t serve the Senate at all, not even in an electorate capacity, so I’m afraid they don’t qualify.”

Ben reels. “What? They don’t even have _any_ tech to use to communicate with the rest of the galaxy. How are they supposed to serve the Senate?”

“The same way we do,” she insists. “They have access to Arkanis Base, so there is no excuse.”

He scoffs. “A handful of workers is not enough to engage with the Senate and—”

“That’s not our problem, sir. It’s theirs.” She settles the matter simply with a shrug.

“But—”

“There are no exceptions. I’m sorry. If we can give away our money to them, we can give away our money to everyone else, too. That just wouldn’t do.” She turns back to her holos. “There is a payment program at the library. A lease-to-own thing. Maybe they can buy things of their own. Have a good afternoon.”

— 

The next day, at the end of the main shift but still painfully long before evening, Ben sits down on the consulate steps and waits for Armitage to come along. They’ve got to get on with their location search before the rain starts back up — tonight, he’d been told. He seems to have a much better grasp on the weather than Ben does, because the clouds in the sky look thin to him, unthreatening.

It only takes a few minutes for Armitage to show, and then they’re off, collecting a speeder and heading out on the main path that swings down to the beach. This is the way they took to the Kjára ceremonies, he recognizes, and it’s definitely a lot easier to ride than to walk.

There’s an abandoned building up along the cliffs that Armitage said may suit their needs. The estuary mill, he’d called it. They’ll have to do some walking, but Ben doesn’t mind.

“Keep going,” Armitage says when the land around them starts to drop, leaving them flying out over a cliffed outcrop.

He can only see ocean, so he slows the speeder. “Where’s the building?”

“Over on the left. You have to keep going to get to the stairs. You’ll see them when we’re close.”

He nods and keeps going. And just as he said, there appears a clear railing structure heading over the side of the cliff. He parks the speeder in front of it. “Down there?”

“Down there,” Armitage confirms, hopping off the speeder and heading directly to the edge. In two seconds, he’s gone.

Ben swallows. “Okay, then,” he murmurs to himself. He follows Armitage slowly, holding onto the railing as he takes the steps down. It’s not so bad. He isn’t hanging out in the open, nor are the stairs very steep. But they are wet and mossy, and he thanks whoever made them that there’s still plenty of earth between him and the estuary.

After a longer climb than he’d think necessary, the stairs curve inward, and he’s suddenly staring right at a building. It’s not huge, but it’s substantial, made of stone and weather-worn wood, still structurally sound. It’s not too boring, either. There are ornaments along the eaves, carvings in the wood, and the roof is steeply sloped, connecting with the higher parts of the cliff above and covering a section of the property that’s outside the building. 

There’s a door there, and he enters, finding Armitage already inside, looking out an open window on the far side of the room. For not having a soul living here, it sure is clean. There’s no dust, no debris. It’s furnished, too. There are two tables with chairs, an adjacent sitting area, lots of doors. He picks one and opens it, and his breath hitches when he sees that it was a bedroom.

“I think this used to be someone’s home,” he calls back.

“Every place is a home,” Armitage says, still in the common area behind him. Ben turns to see him opening up cabinets and looking through the contents. “We aren’t like you, Ben. We don’t like to build buildings for no one to live in. If you need a room for something, add it to the building you already have. Unless it’s something dirty, of course.”

“That makes sense,” Ben concedes hesitantly, looking around at the doors to other rooms, “but why is this one abandoned?” He doesn’t want to assume the previous tenants got very ill and died, but he refrains from touching more mysterious things as a precaution.

“Go look at the south side of the house, and you’ll see,” Armitage tells him, and Ben does as he’s told, going out the way they came. “That’s not south.”

“Well, do you have a compass?”

“Go around.”

Huffing, Ben circles the house, searching for something apocalyptic until his feet slip on silt and he nearly slips and falls to his death. His heart stops, and he closes his eyes for a moment to calm down. Once he feels less hot and a little further from sudden demise, he looks for whatever Armitage wants him to see.

And right in front of him, mounted low on the side of the house, is a large wheel. It hangs down below the foundation and into the canyon. It’s not connected to anything but the house, though. It’s not dusty or dirty, but something about it seems… off. It’s not a living thing, that’s for sure, but it’s mourning something.

“It’s a mill,” Armitage says from behind him. He feels close, but his voice sounds distant, almost choked. “There used to an arm from the Séta river flowing strong through here. It belonged to my grandmother’s older sister before the Empire dammed the river up and starved them out. It can’t be used like it was, but it’s still suitable for our purposes.”

The tendril of bitterness from Armitage flows directly into the well of loss coming from the mill-side of the house. This isn’t a good place.

Ben peers over his shoulder at him. “Do you want to do this somewhere else, if you don’t like it here?”

Armitage shrugs. “There are plenty of equally depressing places for us to spend our time. I don’t care for one any more than for another.”

“Then let’s move on.”

They take the speeder into the forest next, riding along the twisted path before Armitage instructs him to take a sharp turn off just past the bridge. Only a few seconds in, and they’re already pulling up to another house.

This one is built directly into the trees and also has an unmoving mill attached to a slow stream. The weathering around it suggests that the stream was once much more, its demise likely also the result of the dam.

They park the speeder and head up the staircase to the round, wooden treehouse.

“This one definitely needs cleaning up,” Armitage announces before Ben has even taken his first step in the door. When he does get inside, he agrees. Without the ocean wind and the salty air, some dust has taken over, and a bit of moss grows around the broken windows.

“I’ll pass on that for sure,” Ben says, eyeing a suspiciously den-like mass of foliage in the corner. “I mean, it’s cool. I like it. But, uh...”

“Let’s keep moving,” Armitage agrees, leading the way back down the stairs.

They stop at the waiting bike and consider their other options.

“Everything else is closer to town,” Armitage tells him, leaning back against one of the large trees. “I doubt we’d really be welcome to teach Basic and _fostám_ history there, though. A house that’s still lived in is about our only other option, but none of the ones in town proper and definitely not Érit’s.”

“Any people you’d suggest?” Ben asks, and he shrugs.

“Not anyone that would open up for free.” He pauses, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “My house is small, but there’s a barn we don’t use anymore. I can show it to you now, if you’re interested.”

Ben perks up. “Yeah, take me there. Where is your house?”

“Just past the trees,” Armitage says, already climbing onto the speeder. “At the foot of the hills and the beginning of the canal. Dark roof, you can’t miss it.”

Ben nods and hops on, starting the speeder back up, and they zip off through the forest, heading down the main path once again. When the trees spread out and the road opens up, Ben sees a familiar sight. Dark roof, white stone.

“This is your house?” he asks as they pull up the small footpath that leads to the door.

Armitage hums in confirmation.

“I’ve been here before.” He leads the speeder closer to the barn and turns it off. “This is how we got to town when I first arrived.”

“Yes, that’s what my mother told me.”

The barn is just the same as he remembers, made of stone with very large wooden doors. But the one that caught his eye last time is the other building on the opposite side of the house. Even without rain, it’s very opalescent. Like transperisteel with its clear sheen, but also nothing like it at all. He can see some kind of mist or fog in it, but it’s hard to tell whether it’s on the inside of the building or part of the material.

“Wrong direction.”

He looks back at Armitage standing over by the barn, then again to the clear building. “Yeah, I know. I just…,” he trails off, frowning. “What is that building made of?”

Armitage walks over to his side and gives him a funny look. “Glass. Why?”

“Glass?” He blinks in surprise. “Real glass?”

Armitage nods.

“Where do you get it from?”

“The glass-maker,” he answers slowly and plainly.

“Wow.” Amazed, Ben takes in the big glass building again. The walls are glass, the roof is glass. The whole thing is _glass_.

Armitage laughs once. “What, have you never seen glass before?” he asks, incredulous and maybe a bit teasing.

Ben shakes his head. “Not real glass, and not in real life. That’s from sand, right?” He points at the glass structure, and Armitage nods. “All the glass I’ve seen is different. It’s manufactured, and most of it just isn’t glass at all. Where is it made?”

“The fire island. It’s well off-shore, so you’ll probably never see it, but it’s brought into town regularly enough.”

“Oh, okay.” Ben frowns. Seeing it made would be awesome, he’s sure. “Still cool. I can’t believe you made an entire building out of it, though. Isn’t it very delicate?”

“I suppose it would be if you were throwing rocks at it,” Armitage snarks. “Anyway, the old barn is right over here.”

“Right.” Ben turns back to the task at hand. “Open it up, let’s take a look.”

They go back over to the barn, and Armitage opens up one of the wide doors. It’s spacious, clean, clearly hasn’t been used for animals in some time. A few piles of wood sit stacked along the walls, but it’s otherwise empty. There’s room for a couple dozen people in here, easy. If it can be furnished, it would suit very well.

“This is perfect,” he tells Armitage, studying the large windows and skylights. They let in light well enough, but there isn’t much to begin with. “Do you know if we can bring lights in here?”

He nods, heading back to the door. “There are plenty of lanterns in the house.”

Ben follows him. The house is unchanged since he last saw it. The breezeway is empty, with the rest of the house off to either side. The woman who’d let them through last time, Armitage’s mother, is in the kitchen. Armitage speaks to her briefly before heading off further into the house and leaving Ben to wait by the door.

She looks more relaxed than the first time he saw her. Her hair is drawn back, her clothing is more casual. Head bowed, she focuses on her work and not on him.

It’s warm in here, probably from dinner preparations. From where she’s working, he smells mint and something musky and pungent like resin. It’s not offensive — it definitely smells like food —, but it’s bolder than he’s used to.

Armitage quickly returns with an armful of lanterns from one of the rooms off to the left. He passes Ben by and drops them at the front door before doubling back to the kitchen to speak to his mother. She says something back and glances up at Ben. With her hair out of her face like this, she looks strikingly young. She _is_ Armitage’s mother, but she doesn’t look quite old enough.

“Good afternoon,” she greets shortly, then goes back to her work. “My son tells me about this project you’re doing. A school, he said?”

Ben nods to himself. “Yes, a school of sorts. We’re trying to get some understanding on both sides. If it goes well, then hopefully we’ll be able to help you all a lot more than just by making a school.”

“I didn’t think we needed a school,” she says airily, humming while she chops something up rapidly. “I thought we just needed independence. Thank you for your suggestion.”

She does not like this very much, Ben picks up. He can agree.

“That’s what we’re trying to help you with.” Sort of. A sense of independence is close enough, anyway; true independence is dangerous. “The school is to define and inspire some structure so you can choose to be more or less involved in what the New Republic does here.”

She peers back over her shoulder, staring him down, and now Ben can feel what that arkto probably felt when she hunted it. She’s coldly critical, and Ben sees — feels — the family resemblance beyond just the looks.

After a minute of quiet challenge, she speaks. “You don’t think you all can simply leave?”

He understands where she’s coming from, but he shakes his head, vexed at the attitude. “The New Republic is doing what it can to protect this planet and the whole area from other forces — ones that would be far worse to you, as we’ve seen in the past. I can’t make everyone leave, that’s not within my power. But maybe, with time and effort, and if this school goes well and teaches what’s necessary, we can give you the tools you need to protect yourselves. Then, when you no longer need us, that entire military base could be yours to do with as you wish.”

She says something exclusively for her son, sharp-tongued. He frowns, responding to her at length and then turning to Ben.

“I understand it was you who stopped those jets?” he asks.

Ben presses his lips together and stares at him blankly before remembering. “Oh, no. I only asked my…,” he thinks of what to call Luke, “my peer. He was able to get all of that activity moved away from you guys.”

Armitage’s mother hums and nods, face unreadable. “Thank you, anyway. And thank you for the school. I’m sure many will come to appreciate it in the future.”

“Of course.” Ben shrugs one shoulder and gives her a half-smile, eager to leave her house.

“Of course,” Armitage echoes tersely, gathering the lanterns off the floor. “Now, let’s get back to this so you can get going.”

Ben nods and follows him back outside. They take the lanterns into the barn, and then Armitage turns to him, face serious.

“I have a question,” he spits, the words whipping out fast, “and I want you to answer it honestly, if you would please.”

Ben opens his mouth to argue that he would always answer honestly, but thinks better of it at the last moment. There’s no need to be an argumentative idiot. He crosses his arms. “Of course.”

Armitage studies him carefully, pale eyes wary. His jaw is set, but his solemnity is too natural, too tame, and he looks more scared than irate. “Do you have good intentions in this?”

Ben swallows, nodding surely.

He watches him for another moment. “I don’t trust good intentions.”

“What do you trust?” He squares his shoulders, not looking to fight but not one to back down. Whatever the problem is, it will be solved one way or another.

“Collateral,” he answers with a shrug, and Ben can understand that. For all that Armitage seems to believe he isn’t fit for politics, he is quite savvy and intuitive. “What do you face to lose if we don’t benefit from this arrangement?”

Ben chews on the inside of his lip. The truth might be a little tough to explain, but he’ll try. Armitage is smart. “Basically my life’s work,” he says honestly. “This is everything I went to school for, like we talked about. If I don’t create an environment that’s safe for everybody, I won’t ever get to do this again.”

“And what do you stand to gain from your success?”

He shrugs. “That’s more of a personal thing, I guess. My job is to do good, and I swore an oath on that. It’s what I want.”

“You may want to do good,” Armitage says, shaking his head, “but I think you may be in over your head.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a half-huff, half-laugh. “You think you know who you’re dealing with, but you don’t. That’s dangerous. You’ve got a lot to learn if you think this is going to be easy.”

Ben clenches his fists. “I never said it would be easy, and I know it will take some time. There’s an actual war happening out there,” he points up, “ _again_ , and what we’re doing with the school and the structure I’m trying to give you—”

“No,” Armitage snaps. “They don’t want your structure. They want their own structure.” He puts his hands on his hips and juts his face forward as he scolds Ben. “You have to let them think it’s their idea. Let the school do the work subtly. No one in this generation wants your help. If you’re going to do anything at all, then do _anything_ except telling them that you’re _helping_ them or that they _need_ you. My mother already dislikes you because of what you said back there.” 

What he said back there? He tries to remember what he might’ve said that was so — oh. _When you no longer need us._

He closes his eyes briefly. “That’s not what I meant,” he corrects, hands up.

“But it’s what you said.” Armitage starts ushering him out of the barn, bringing his hands up to his tightly twisted hair and freeing it. It fans out over his shoulders, and he looks ever more the cub of his killer mother. “Don’t ever tell us what we need. That’s _my_ job to _you_. You are not one of us.”

“I understand,” Ben cedes with a nod, heading out the door slowly. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, and you do what you need to do to convince your people.”

Armitage crosses his arms, coming to a stop in the doorway. “I will.” His voice is more sure now, more powerful and less emotional. “I just want to make sure you’re actually helping, not hurting. I don’t want a dependent or an unruly population, just a happy and civilized one like we’ve had in the past. Don’t go too far with your new ideas, or you’ll ruin it.”

Ben wants to say something, but not too much. He opens and closes his mouth, mirroring Armitage’s crossed arms, thinking. “My main job is to protect the New Republic while I’m here and after I leave, so there is a certain amount of quelling that needs to happen. The soldiers can’t fight if they’re struggling with you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He raises a brow. “Well, it certainly sounds like you’re not really doing this out of the good of your own heart,” he mutters flatly. His anger is back, and it’s a quiet and critical one, just like his mother’s.

“I am,” Ben sighs, insistent, but that accustory look doesn’t fade. “Trust me, I am. I want to keep both the base and your people happy and safe. I’m compromising with myself for it. I want you all to get the education you deserve because I just _want_ that for you.”

“You want us to be educated about your history and government. Is that so we can compete with you, or so we can assimilate?”

He reels back, curling a lip. “Why is that even a question?”

“Why aren’t you answering it?” Armitage fires back. “It’s an important question to ask. You even said yourself that you want us to vote.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Ben argues. “Voting is what everyone does. Everyone civilized, at least.”

His jaw drops, and Ben can hear his heartbreaking question loud in his head. _What are we to you?_ It was a misstep, but he holds his ground, silent.

“ _Civilized_ people are the ones who think that only a hundred people can rule over ninety-nine simply because consensus is law?” Armitage hisses. He’s truly angry now. His face is taking on a little more color, and he’s sounding more and more foreign to Ben by the second. “That any person can rule over another person because they are deemed more important? That is not how we do things here. I said we need structure, not mob rule. Your voting is how you _and_ the Empire could justify doing anything you want to us. After all, there are more of you than there are of us, so that must make everything you do here fair, right?”

Ben frowns, hesitant. It doesn’t make much sense to him, but he can see where Armitage is coming from. “We’re not like the Empire,” he defends weakly.

Armitage laughs humorlessly. “No, you said we could come to the table and talk with you as equals, get what we want and need because we deserve it. The Empire at least never lied to us like that.” He looks down at the ground where the floor of the barn ends, scuffing his shoe against it. “You can go now. Don’t let the rain catch you. Come back and talk once you’ve figured out your real intentions.”

He appears to be waiting for Ben to leave, so Ben turns and makes for his speeder. He considers an apology, but none come to him. Where lies the problem? He hadn’t known it was this important to Armitage to refrain from something as innocuous as democracy.

He hops back on his speeder and starts it. When he looks back, Armitage is still in the doorway of the barn, looking down at the ground. After the easy days they’d had, he never thought it would come to this.

He’ll have to sit and think about what Armitage had said. Would it be possible to make a council that doesn’t vote? To get a good hold on the people without a direct involvement with the New Republic? Something simply advisory, perhaps? But first, he just needs to take the day. He’ll fix it tomorrow.

He rides home swiftly. It rains the whole way.

— 

Ben walks up to his apartment, but stops in front of his door when he sees Mara downstairs.

“Hey,” he calls down, grabbing her attention.

“Hey, kid,” she smiles up at him. “Why don’t you come down here? I just talked to Luke.”

Luke’s been working with Pascaline further in town recently. They have to coordinate with Command’s Communications unit to do some monitoring of the syndicate in Arkanis space. He hasn’t been seeing much of them lately.

“Sure,” Ben says, heading back down the stairs to Mara’s apartment. She lets the two of them in and sets her grocery bags on the counter.

While she unpacks, he takes care to remove his sopping wet outer robe and dump it outside. He’s still horrendously soaked, but he feels slightly less drowned without it. It can be washed later.

Mara looks him up and down, but doesn’t question his state or lack of stormcloak. Instead, she recounts what Luke told her. “There hasn’t been too much activity lately, but I’ll give you some good news on Pascaline. She’s doing a great job on her distant reading when she listens to someone. Luke’s very impressed with that so far.”

Ben smiles, shaking his head and chuckling. His wet hair falls into his eyes, and he has to push it back. “Why do you think I never play strategy games with her?”

“Because you have to _think_ to play strategy games,” she answers unnecessarily with a smirk. “Oh, and speaking of strategy, remind me to drag you to Christophsis when I go. It’ll be sometime soon, not entirely sure when, and I need someone to just sit and wait while I run an errand.” 

Ben huffs, rolling his eyes but accepting his fate as Mara’s handler-not-handler on her weird and never-ending side-missions, and she switches back to the gang problem fast.

“Now, we’ve noticed that they switch channels more frequently when our pilots take the exercises closer to them. They think we’re listening from fighters, I suppose? No idea what that’s about, but it probably yields something interesting, so that’s what they’re looking into now. Someone also mentioned seeing military craft that weren’t on our schedule, so while it could really be anyone, we have to play it safe and assume it’s First Order. Don’t be surprised if you hear increased activity in the hangars. Otherwise, that’s about all we have going on on that front. That’s not top secret, anyway.”

She finishes putting away her groceries and appraises him.

“So what’s got you upset now?” she asks, hands on her hips.

Ben sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. His conversation with Armitage really tired him out. He’d wanted to rest for the night, but she’s too intuitive. All his tiny, little worries come back to the forefront of his mind. Just when he thought had been making good progress, Armitage basically shut him down. He’ll have to do a lot of thinking on this problem.

She tires of his silent brooding before he does. “Is it your plan? The one you just came up with?” she prompts. “I take it it’s not working out as you’d hoped.”

“It _is_ working out,” Ben insists, “but also not. We’ve got a good idea of what to teach, a couple of people who are willing to get it started, but when I went to Secretary K’Mondha to ask about resources, she said they don’t qualify for anything publicly funded.”

Mara nods. “That’s mostly true, but it’s still something we can work on. There are alternatives.”

“Yeah, and then the second thing is a little tougher — I think mostly because I’m just not used to working with this stuff. Armitage, the one that the _éden_ said would help us, is very reluctant about the plans for after the school. First, he got upset over me implying that they need us. I get that’s totally my bad. I shouldn’t have that. But then he also said some things about democracy which are not conducive to our plans at all.”

“I’m not surprised,” she interjects. “They don’t already have a democratic system, so you can’t just throw something like that at them out of nowhere. I don’t see your problem, though. You know what you’re getting into.”

“I do, but it’s harder and way more complicated than I thought it would be.”

Mara laughs. “There’s a reason these things contribute to your Trials, Ben. They aren’t meant to be easily or quickly accomplished.” She takes a seat on the couch in front of him. “Now tell me what he says is your problem.”

“He wants to promote education,” Ben begins fairly enough. Mara nods for him to go on. “He doesn’t want to promote any sort of dependency on the New Republic.”

Mara shakes her head. “I just don’t see the problem you’re having, Ben. Maybe there’s just not a real problem at all. You just don’t want to succeed, or don’t want to try? That’s what it seems like to me.”

He furrows his brow and frowns at her. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this — I do. This is exactly what I want. I want everything to go well. I want everyone to live in peace and comfort. I want these people to stop fearing the New Republic.”

She scoffs. “Then why don’t you act like it instead of whine like a brat? Or are you too thick to see what’s really going on? Your troubles are no more than a distraction, Ben. Go meditate on it.”

“No, I—”

“Ben,” she says forcefully. “Learn how to take some advice from others. You do not know everything. You need to learn from others who have something to offer when you don’t have anything yourself.” With that, she points to the door. “Now go, you wet mop.”

He spins on his heel with a huff, storming out and going to his own apartment to meditate. Just because she’s bossy doesn’t mean she hasn’t got good advice, he reasons. Keeping the lights off, he heads to his room, sits down on the floor in his wet clothes, and closes his eyes.

He spends a minute just breathing, and then lets the problem take form in his mind. How to get Armitage onboard for the plan…

He ruminates for a while, not putting too much effort into unraveling it. He breathes, breathes, breathes, lets the Force flow in, flow out.

And then he realizes that he is an idiot.

Not only did he leave his damn robe at her doorstep, he totally misunderstood Mara when she told him to learn to take advice. And when she told him that he doesn’t know everything. And that he has to learn from _others_ who know things he doesn’t.

Armitage.

Armitage doesn’t need a democracy. That will take time, and it’s likely that neither of them would even be alive to see it fully-formed.

But Armitage does know what’s needed now. They don’t have to argue; they barely have to compromise. Ben sighs. He’ll have to go see him when he’s back on base, and then they can reach an understanding. They can do things besides the voting and all that. Just the council, perhaps, to lay the foundation and bring the people together. Assimilation can be left for the long-term.

— 

Ben spends the next morning procrastinating his visit to Armitage. In truth, he’s not keen on apologies and only rarely admits being wrong, but he knows that’s exactly what he needs to do now. It’s early afternoon by the time he breaks himself down and swallows his pride.

The door to the shop is unlocked, but Ben has a tough time taking himself inside. He can feel Armitage’s focus from out here. It’s intense, and it’s simply too easy for Ben to use that as an excuse not to interrupt him. He waits another day.

—

The bright red door is unlocked again, as is likely the norm, and Ben spends a solid minute standing there to try and find an excuse to leave. No excuse comes.

He opens the door as quietly as he can. Armitage is at his desk, hunched over something and staring at it in concentration. He glances up briefly at the sound of the door closing, raising a critical brow at Ben before looking back down at the desk.

Ben walks all the way over to the desk before Armitage says a word.

“Sorted yourself out, then?”

“Yes.” Ben looks down at the datapad Armitage is studying. It looks like an order form of some sort.

Armitage hums and keeps scouring the page, ignoring Ben. After a minute, he huffs and double-taps the screen to select a command. The datapad blinks before reading part of the form aloud.

_“Sonoro Byans. QuickFlyer, red.”_

Armitage looks over to the neat row of small vehicles at the other end of the shop. Upon finding what he’s looking for, he goes back to the datapad and clicks a few things. When he’s done with that, he finally addresses Ben once more.

“What do you need, then?” he asks, stowing the datapad away in a drawer with a succinct slam.

Ben sighs and takes a seat on one of the empty stools. “I need your advice.”

“I know that,” Armitage responds easily. “What, specifically, do you need?” He sits on the other stool and looks at Ben expectantly.

He hesitates, though he has no reason to. He should be honest. “I realize I don’t know as much about your culture as I should, so I was hoping you could provide some insight on how you all would like this to be done. I know you don’t like the idea of voting, so we’ll need an alternative system so that you all can come to a clear and simple agreement with the New Republic. Your ideas are all definitely better than mine because I don’t have any in the first place.”

Armitage gives him a scrutinizing frown. “If you let others dictate what you do, then you’re no more than a machine. Just like any of those.” He waves a hand at all the machinery behind him.

Ben is starkly reminded of Mara’s guidelines, particularly the last one: let them be defeated in honor. No hearts can truly be captured by force. He must be likeable, the best available option.

He nods, following along with Armitage’s explanation.

“We’re all human. We all have rights. I would like that to be respected in any system. As for alternatives, I suppose there are a couple that can prevent people’s ideas from conflicting and competing with one another’s. Either we all deal individually with our needs, or we all report to someone who can deal with them collectively, and then sort the rest out amongst ourselves.

“Personally, I would prefer to deal with it individually, but I understand that may not be feasible without forfeiting sovereignty. It would also be logistically difficult, as we’re all very far out from the consulate. And you all simply don’t do things that way, anyway.

“On the other hand, there could be a council of some sort for us to talk to, and then they can meet with you to get things settled. But with everything dealt with collectively on your end, it would eventually need to be individualized somewhere down the line, which opens room for mismanagement. That would likely be easiest, though, unless I can think of something else.”

Ben hums, processing all of it. “That philosophy — would you say it stands for everybody? That only machines should do as they’re told?”

“I didn’t say that,” Armitage corrects. “I said that those who let others dictate what they do are machines. There’s a difference between listening and giving credence to what someone has to say, and following them blindly. As far as for everyone else’s beliefs, I think the way to translate it would be that you’re an empty mill in a river, grinding yourself down.”

Ben nods, smiling at the proverb he hadn’t quite asked for. It’s a good one. “Okay, then. I guess we’ll have to think on that, the structure you’ll benefit from most. The easy and comfortable stuff, all that.”

“Of course.”

“And then, as for the school,” Ben shifts the subject a little, “Is there anything in particular that you want everyone to learn? Or that you want to teach? Because I don’t know how many students we’ll be rounding up, but that affects the volume and speed of curriculum we can effectively teach.”

He shrugs, licks his lips, looks down at the floor. “I think they should all learn just how big the galaxy is and how to speak to it. The new perspectives and loads of information is ultimately the most important thing anyone can be exposed to. That’s how we’ll all learn the most. I feel that the structure will come in time. It’s not something we need right away, and we can ease into it after getting familiar with the idea.

“And I can just teach Basic like Érit. I’m not very good at reading the letters, but I’ve been speaking it since I was a child.”

He nods. “I can tell; you sound kind of Imperial when you talk.”

“That’s what everyone says. I can’t really hear it, myself.” He shrugs. “Anyway, have you made any progress on the resources you can provide?”

“About that,” Ben hums, pausing shamefully.

“You never fund anything for non-Republic nations, I know,” Armitage finishes. “But if you can loan some solid assets, that’s really all we need.”

“Yeah.” He leans an elbow on the desk and bites his lip. “I talked to secretary K’Mondha about it, and she suggested renting from the library. I’d like to try and get that stuff without you guys paying, so I’ll have to do some research and see what we’re allowed to give you. Would you be willing to speak to my peers or interviewers, by any chance? I think presenting our joint plan from both sides would help make a stronger case.”

Armitage nods hesitantly. “I could, I suppose. Just let me know when. And not during Kjára.”

“That’s coming up again soon?”

“Next week,” he confirms with a nod.

“Okay, sure.” Ben thinks on it a bit. “That’ll give me some time to read through all the boring laws about what we’re doing.” He grimaces.

“And I’ll speak to Érit about recruiting students. She’ll probably do a great job no matter what, but I think it’ll be easier to focus on the empowerment aspect rather than simply reading with them. She likes that stuff, but others will take convincing.”

“Sounds good,” he smiles. “I’ll see you around, Armitage. Thanks.”

“No.” Armitage extends a hand out to him. “Thank you for listening.”

Ben shakes it. “Always.”

— 

The research is… not fun. Ben doesn’t have to do all of it himself, to be fair, but it’s still grueling. He pores over bylaws, past cases, Old Republican cases. He’s made at least a dozen holocalls to people who’ve processed or filed special requests to the Galactic Aid Commission only to get wishy-washy answers from all of them.

Even Mara talks to people she knows, asking them how to get financial aid before applying to the union, probably even how to steal it. Luke doesn’t talk to anyone, he thinks.

The same day as Kjára begins, they finally find something.

“Chapter ninety-seven, section K, subsection four, clause eight-point-two of the Civil Preservation Accords,” Ben announces to Luke, “allows a ‘rare or unique society’ with a ‘rare or unique intelligent species or race’ with ‘ethno-linguistic diversity’ to receive aid _if_ they are ‘in danger of extinction, under non-judicial persecution, or otherwise face annihilation or unrecoverable personal casualties,’ _and_ are ‘not actively engaged in, seeking, or threatening conflict with any member-states of the Republic.’”

He looks up at Luke with a smile. “These people are rare, a strategic target of the First Order, and not at war with anyone.”

Luke nods slowly. “You’re definitely Leia’s son.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Are we doing this or not?”

“If that’s what you think is best.” Luke shrugs. “This is your project, and I’m not your parent. I’m trusting you’ve got this under your control.”

—

When Kjára ends, and everyone is celebrating on the beach, Ben finds Armitage to tell him the good news.

“We can get funding for you,” Ben shouts over some young singers nearby. Armitage leans in to hear him better, getting close enough for Ben to speak in his ear. “I said we can get funding. We’re going to have a hearing about it because we always have to, but it’s most likely a sure thing.”

“I didn’t think we qualified at all,” Armitage tells him, eyebrows drawn together. “That’s what I’ve always been told.”

“They didn’t do enough research,” Ben guesses. “You could be considered a rare group of people, there’s nothing you’ve done wrong, and you’re under threat of forceful annexation by the First Order.”

“So we’re rescue animals.” Armitage grimaces. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness. Do you know when the hearing is?”

Ben shakes his head. “I’ll let you know. It’ll probably be soon, but it has yet to be scheduled with an appraiser from the Galactic Aid Commission.”

“Okay, see you then.”

“See you then.”

— 

“No, no way,” Pascaline laughs.

Ben lowers his brow. “Yes, way.”

“No,” she insists. “My intel has to be confirmed before I can say anything, you know that. It’s top secret, all speculation. Hearsay.”

He points his fork at her. “You are not some little Force-null agent listening in on half-conversations. You already know that whatever intel you’re gathering on that syndicate or whatever is true.”

“That does not mean I can tell you.” She shoves a spoonful of rice into her mouth and shrugs, effectively ending her part of the interrogation.

It’s late. The sun is starting to go down, and Ben should be in bed by now. But Pascaline ordered some food in, called him over, and now won’t say a word about the work she’s doing over at Communications.

“Actually, I can say one thing.”

Ben perks up.

“So everyone’s supposed to be on a specific frequency, right? Our pilots have their flight controllers, and those people up there have their own frequencies they use.”

He nods, and Pascaline giggles, launching into story mode.

“Okay, so they change frequency all the time because they know we’re listening. But sometimes, they accidentally use one of Command’s frequencies. Most of the pilots and controllers are pretty relaxed about it, but there’s this one that gets me every time.”

“What’s he do?” He eats what he can while she talks, ready to go to sleep.

“He fucks with them, put simply,” she says with another laugh. “He’s got a different joke every time. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, he’ll say something like ‘beep, your ten minute purchase is almost spent. To continue using the Republican Command Sex Hotline, please pay thirty more credits in the next two minutes.’”

Ben narrowly avoids choking. “He says that? Even though everyone can hear him?”

She smirks. “Probably _because_ everyone can hear him. We’re not supposed to be making noise in the Comm room, but everyone laughs anyway.”

“Sounds like you’re having a lot of fun,” he notes, smiling sleepily.

She hums. “Aren’t you? Or is that boy you’re seeing not fun?”

“Boy I’m seeing?” Ben leans back, loaded fork still in front of his face. “What?”

“That one you’ve been spending personal time with?”

Ben blinks. “Personal— no.” He brings a hand to his face; it’s unfortunately warm. “No, no, no. That’s business time, and I’m not _seeing_ him, Pasc.”

“Oh, you aren’t?” She draws her brows together and purses her lips. “Mara said you visit with him a lot, and I thought you looked awfully close at Kjára.”

“Close?” he asks, mortified.

“Your chests were basically touching,” she points out, “and he was half-naked.”

He huffs. “That doesn’t mean anything. That’s just how they dress.”

“Big chest tattoo.” She scrunches up her face. “Nipple piercings.”

He rolls his eyes to play it off, but those comments were a step over the line, and he knows he’s blushing. “Don’t talk about him like that. It’s weird. We’re just working together, is all.”

She hums. “I don’t know. You are on a first-name basis, aren’t you?”

“I’m on a first-name basis with everyone. You know that.”

“Okay.” She shrugs and goes back to eating, but keeps her mocking eyes on him the whole time.

It’s easy to let the questioning get to him. He works on his food, but his thoughts roll around and snowball without his permission. Is he close to Armitage? He doesn’t think so. He’s about as close to him as he would be with any friend.

Is friend the word?

He’s not anywhere near as close to Armitage as he is to Pascaline, but Pascaline is a _best_ friend, and Ben doesn’t exactly have other friends to compare him to. They don’t chat. They kind of do, but they don’t. They are usually alone, but that’s a result of circumstance; Armitage works alone, Ben doesn’t really talk with anyone if he doesn’t need to.

So maybe they’re like friends, but barely. What kind of friends have tense confrontations? They certainly aren’t whatever Pascaline was suggesting. Sure, he’s conventionally attractive in an unconventional way, if that makes any sense. He’s got a nice face, good bone definition? His hair looks very healthy. He wears himself in a different way, though. His hair is long, he wears jewelry. Nipple piercings?

But that doesn’t mean Ben is attracted to him.

When he finishes his bowl, he sets it down on the table. She brings the topic up again.

“As much as I like joking about it,” she says, “I really hate to see you get emotionally invested.”

“I’m not emotionally invested,” he replies automatically.

“Keep saying that. It’ll lead you down the wrong path one day.” She levels him a flat look. “I’m doing my mission, you do yours. Remember why we’re here, forget about the individuals, and just help keep Arkanis safe so the rest of the galaxy can live in peace.”

“That’s what I am doing. Thanks for the talk.”

— 

“I’m thinking that perhaps a small council can meet with you regularly concerning the funds, their uses and restrictions, and the like. But in all likelihood, that’s all you’re going to get. It would likely be distributed by need and want, though need is difficult to gauge and highly subjective, and therefore likely to be ignored.”

“You’re probably right,” Ben agrees. They’re in a large office that serves as a conference room on rare occasions such as this one. The others have yet to join them for the hearing, so Ben and Armitage are killing time with their plans. They figure there are probably stipulations in the aid agreement, especially regarding how the funds are distributed and applied.

Armitage is quiet for a moment. “This is all happening so fast,” he mumbles down to the table. “A month? It can’t be real, can it?”

“This is the speed at which most of the galaxy does things,” Ben explains. “And I don’t mean the hustling and bustling places. I mean the most normal, typical parts of the Republic. If you think this is fast, you don’t want to know how instantly things happen in the innermost Core.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Armitage frowns. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m so used to how useless the old Ambassadors were that everything you’re doing seems like a miracle.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s working out so far. We can do a lot if we just keep at it.”

Before Armitage can respond, heavy footsteps clunk up the stairs and down the hallway, and the door yields to the rest of the group.

Luke enters first, followed by Mara and secretary K’Mondha, heads bowed in conversation.

“Christophsis?” K’Mondha murmurs, and Mara nods. “That’s the last place I would ever…”

“Pascaline is on shift at the radio op again,” Luke says over them. “She’s not vital to this meeting, anyway.”

Mara and K’Mondha break off their hushed conversation when they take their seats, and Mara looks between Ben and Armitage before setting a holopad on the table.

“The call will start in about five minutes,” she announces. “Ben, brief us very quickly on your full plan before we start. The school, its purpose, the segue.”

“Sure thing.” Ben nods quickly, sitting up straight. He looks first to Armitage, then around the rest of the table. “I think the first and most important thing to stress ahead of _anything_ else is that this entire plan is designed to help the local population remain safe and maintain their independence while the threat of the First Order remains active.”

The lie is easy now that Ben has had a lot of practice. Armitage smiles, unknowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! All the chapters are subject to extensive editing before publishing, so any ideas/input you have could very well end up in the fic. I don't know how many people are reading this fic, but two or more heads are better than one.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/) (which gets checked), a [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking) (which I am on most often now), and a [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/nymeriaking) (which does not really get used at all). Y'all are all welcome to talk to me on these platforms.


	9. sô-syr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah, I'm not dead. Sorry for the delay. Had a minor psychological inconvenience. 0.007/10, would only recommend in weird situations. Here's another 10k+

The rain is coming down in droves outside, sending rushes of water down the sides of the streets and pushing the base’s water system to the max. It’s been like this for weeks, now, marking the beginning of a heavy, miserable summer. One floodgate up at the dam has already been opened, and there’s no doubt in Armitage’s mind that they’ll soon need to open up another.

It’s loud, too. The rush drowns out the chatter inside the cafe, and Armitage has to speak up to be heard.

“It’s looking good; Érit’s got a dozen recruits so far, and I’ve heard more talk in town than usual. People are interested, at least, but...” A mumble of thunder rolls out, and he shrugs dismissively. “My only concern is effectively teaching the reading and writing to everyone. Érit can read just fine because she was taught as a child, but most of us weren’t. It’ll likely only be the younger ones who’ll pick it up.”

Ben is looking out the window, too. He’s quiet for a few seconds, his bottom lip turning white under his teeth. “I think you and Érit can handle it,” he decides. He sounds distant, though, like he wasn’t listening. “You’re both smart. You can teach anyone, even the older ones. And anyone who’s going to be on the council will need to be writing, anyway. Reports can’t write themselves.”

“No, Ben,” he sighs, rubbing his temple. Ben must not understand the point he’s trying to make, but he’s reluctant to explain it.

Ben turns away from the window, and a crooked smile sets itself on his face, probably meant to be reassuring. “Look, I trust you. If anyone can teach anything, like how to read and write, it’s you.”

Armitage is not reassured. He brings his cup of tea up to his mouth and stares into it, mumbling behind the porcelain. “I don’t even know how to write.”

“What was that?” Ben rests an elbow on the table and leans in. “I couldn’t hear you over the rain.”

“I—,” he starts, stopping short and huffing in frustration. It shouldn’t need to be said. He takes a sip and forces the cup down on the table with a clang, speaking more clearly. “I can write my name.”

Ben smiles, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, but accepting nonetheless. “Okay.”

He clenches his jaw. “That’s what I know how to write. That’s it.”

Ben’s eyebrows lift in realization, and his mouth forms an _O_.

Armitage shifts in his seat, turning his eyes out to the street and the pouring rain to avoid the gawking.

“I guess I just assumed, since you can read, that you—”

“I can barely even read,” he whispers. It takes effort to keep the anger out of his voice; it’s for himself, not Ben. “It’s just hard to focus on the letters, so I never really learned them well, and that’s why.” 

“We can work on that, then. No big deal. Érit can teach that stuff, and you can focus on conversation.” He sits back up, resuming his normal volume over the rushing rain. “Now, as for history, one of the key subjects is the Republican and Imperial conflict.”

Armitage nods along, eyeing him as he so easily changes the subject. 

“That lesson is mandatory,” he stresses, “and there is no way around it as long as we’re using the resources provided by the New Republic.”

“I understand.” The New Republic wants to ensure that they are remembered as being on the right side of history. “Do you already have select points we need to go over?”

“Yes. I’ll have a full curriculum loaded onto those datapads. It’s a long history, so there will be something new to talk about everyday. Of course, from the lessons provided, you will be able to directly pull relevant parallels to your own future.” He lists them out on his fingers. “The downfalls of extreme centralization, the high death toll from the war, how small nations were exploited in the race to rule, and things like structures of legislation and enforcement.”

Armitage nods. “Sounds good.” He’ll likely have to study a bit himself if he’s to be able to discuss this, but he can probably just listen at work.

“And you said three days a week, correct?” Ben asks, scrolling through his datapad. Armitage nods again, and he hums. “Great. This is a good start. Once we get a few weeks in, we can reassess and see where we stand.

“And to whom do we report our assessment? That woman said it was internal, didn’t she?”

“Right. So it can’t be to ourselves, but it can be to someone like Luke or Mara. It just needs a reference. I have a copy of the sample assessment, if you want to see it.”

“I’ll look at it later,” he sighs, relaxing. He’s not quite ready for the bureaucracy yet.

“Now, the rest of the money, what’s going to food, business, and infrastructure, will be a lot different. Those reports go directly to our liaison at the G.A.C., and she’ll send them up. It can’t just be spent on whatever we want because there’s nothing to show for it right away. All that stuff needs more planning and approval, and I think the funds are coming through a different support program.”

“Naturally,” he says, nodding along. Ben may be practiced with all of this, but Armitage is starting to lose track of all the information. “And, um, do you have an idea how much will be allotted for pay? I know it’ll be a while before anything can be paid out, and you before that it might not be afforded, but I was just wondering if you—”

“How much do you want?” Ben asks, interrupting him.

He balks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“How much do you want?” Ben repeats. “I can probably meet it.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t have any number in mind.” He shakes his head, helpless.

“How much do you make now?”

“Oh, um.” He swallows. “You don’t have to pay me that much, really.”

“But I can supplement it, surely. It takes up your extra time, so I don’t see why it’s not worth at least seventy percent of what you make at the shop, hour by hour. I’d argue for one-hundred percent, myself, but I know engineers like you cost a lot, and I’m not sure how well a match would fly over.” He smiles, leaning back in his seat. “So, figuring two hours a day, three days a week, how much would you want to take home each week?”

Armitage chews his lip, thinking, then shrugs. “Honestly, I think thirty credits a week is plenty. I know that’s really—”

“Way too low. Like I said, seventy percent of your normal wage at the shop is perfectly justifiable.”

He shrinks back. They must not be on the same page. “I was going to say way too high,” he clarifies. “That’s one-hundred perfect, and I really don’t want to ask for that.”

Ben is quiet for a minute, brow creased in concentration. “That’s not right.” He looks at Armitage skeptically. “If that’s one-hundred percent of what you make, then the shop is only paying you, what? Thirty credits for a whole shift?”

He nods.

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s enough for me,” Armitage sniffs indignantly. 

“That’s only— no.” Ben put his hands flat on the table, looking down at the space between them. “You’re not leaving here without agreeing to double that much. Ten credits an hour, no less. It might seem like a lot to you, but it’s really nothing to us. That’s the _lowest_ I can go.”

He does the math quickly in his head and then jerks away, his shoulder blades hitting the chair back hard. “That would put me at almost ten thousand credits a year.”

“Yeah,” Ben insists, tone dry. “That’s what I’m paying you and Érit, ten credits an hour, and if that’s too much for you, then I don’t care. You can pay your students for making a positive contribution to society, or something.”

“Alright, then. I’ll let her know. I think the first lesson will be the first day after _Kjára_.”

Ben nods slowly and glances over to his left, further into the cafe. He’s been doing that a lot since they sat down, but now his gaze lingers.

Armitage follows it to a table of officers, all in their crisp, standard-issue dress. They’re somewhat rowdy, though, so he quickly pegs them as pilots. Just as he’s about to call Ben’s attention back, one of them shouts.

“Bullshit!”

The others at his table shush him, but he refuses.

“No! We _know_ they’re hanging around the Gordian Reach. We _know_ they’re on Botajef. We _know_ they’re actively recruiting. Botajef is a Republican state! How is that not considered aggression? We’re having a _meeting_ about it, so it’s clearly important enough to talk about! How is it not important enough to _do something_ about?”

His compatriots look upset by his outburst.

“Dameron, come on,” one of them pleads.

“Yeah, let’s just get back to the briefing room, and you can tell Nix how you feel, okay?”

The man, apparently named Dameron, huffs loudly. “You guys can’t be okay with this, can you?” he demands, looking at all his fellows in turn. “Do you really want to wait for the First Order to attack first?”

“Just use your brain for once, airhead,” one of the others spits. “We don’t want to give them a reason to attack. We practice so we can be prepared, not so we can start shit.” He shoots out of his chair and leaves the cafe alone.

After a tense few seconds of silence, Dameron follows. The others all stay at their table, brooding quietly.

Ben turns back to Armitage with a distant look on his face. “Right, where were we?”

He struggles to think back to what exactly they were discussing before the outburst. “I think just the school start once _Kjára_ is over. Oh— the furnishings need to be set up. Would you be able to arrange for that? I also need the comm relay installed near the house; I imagine you have different people for those things.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Ben nods. “Sorry for the weird question, but would that be able to happen during _Kjára_? I know you have restrictions…”

Armitage brushes it off. “That’s no problem. The only thing is that I can’t help them. No working, no talking. They’ll need to be able to do it on their own.”

“I’ll leave instructions for them, then.”

— 

_Kjára_ comes and goes in its typical silence, save for the day in the middle when the generator and relay tower are installed at the barn. Ben is not at the closing celebrations, nor will he be at the first gathering of the class Érit so carefully recruited. He's off-world, having flown off to take care of some minor business like it was just that simple. For someone like Ben, Armitage supposes it is.

That leaves him and Érit to take care of the first day, to which he has no objections. It allows them time to prepare the attending students to meet Ben, who they might never otherwise consider meeting, and to set expectations for the class. It’s practical and not too rushed, just the way he likes it.

He hasn't met the students yet, only heard Érit mention them in passing, and he's more anxious than he's willing to admit to see who makes good on the promise to show up. It's a tough thing, really, to swallow one's pride and sit down with the adversary, and Armitage will give great credit to those who do. Still, his thoughts nag him about _who_ their adversary is.

The _fostáme_ , of course, is the obvious answer, but...Armitage is a sellout, and thus no better. Are the students also sellouts, then? He doesn’t pursue that thought. Instead, he quickly pushes through his work to end his shift.

His nerves stir again on the walk home, warming his blood and tickling his chest before kicking up fiercely when he comes to the open barn door.

He pauses in the doorway.

The tables that had each been standing alone have been pushed together. All the chairs are gathered around them and filled with a healthy mix of people. Young women, older women, mothers and their idle sons. There are over a dozen of them, fifteen including Érit, and they’re all dressed in their best, picking at _ôsjo_ and chatting happily. 

“What’s this?” Armitage asks, stepping inside to get a closer look. Seeing everyone’s fine appearances — the decorative cuts with hand-embroidered patterns, their good, clean shoes, the more intricate braids they had time for —, he brings a hand up to his own plain clothing. He’s not used to these sorts of gatherings, not outside Kjára, and he’ll admit he simply hadn’t thought to dress in anything but his work clothes and rain cloak.

Everyone looks up at him, studying and likely judging his appearance. He hadn’t even bothered to take care of his hair, either, he realizes. He darts a hand up to pull it down quickly and smiles awkwardly, taking a few seconds to tie half of back and out of his face.

“Sorry for being late,” he mutters. When all’s still quiet, he explains, “I do all my work on base, and it takes a while to get back here.”

Érit, the most familiar face, smiles. “There’s no such thing as late. You know that.” She kicks a chair out for him. “Come sit with us. We were just talking about food.”

The gathered students silently watch him take his seat next to Érit. They look nice enough, not too critical or perturbed by his presence, but they don’t say anything, either. The conversation seems to have died with him.

“Food,” he inquires, looking for Érit to expand. “What’s up with food?”

Chuckling, she reaches forward and takes a slice of _ôsjo_ , well-cured and finely seasoned, and holds it aloft. “This is part of our culture. And that is our first lesson.”

_If you feed them, they will come. That must be how she recruited these students, and how she’ll likely recruit even more. Charitable and effective._

“The people of the New Republic all have their own cultures and their own food,” Érit continues matter-of-factly. “The first step to living in peace with them is to learn about their cultures and learn how to relate. I stopped by the market on the way here and grabbed some food so we all can enjoy the lesson more thoroughly.”

He laughs, nodding. “Sounds like we’re off to a good start, then.”

And a good start, it is.

Ben seems happy to hear as much the next afternoon as Armitage passes by the consulate on his way to class.

“Oh, awesome,” he sighs in relief. “I’m not gonna lie; part of me never quite believed it was going to take. We did so little planning, we didn’t do any trials or anything.”

Armitage smiles and nods in agreement. “Neither did I, really. But then I saw that Érit brought food.”

Ben’s eyes widen comically. “How did we not think of that?”

He shrugs helplessly. “She made it into a really good point, too, talked about what culture is and how to relate to others. She’s the cleverest person I know. It really blows me away.”

“I’d like to see her with the students. Is that where you’re heading now?” Ben asks, looking down the road toward his destination. “To the next class?”

He nods and takes a leading step. “Yes. It’ll be starting soon. I have just enough time to walk.”

“Oh, good. Do you, um,” Ben gestures vaguely at him, “do you want me to walk with you? Since I wasn’t here yesterday, and…”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Armitage bites his lip. “I kind of already told everyone that you should be here today. Sorry.”

Ben grins and starts walking the same direction, apparently already carrying everything he needs. “Don’t be sorry. I should be there today. _I’m_ sorry for not being there yesterday. I couldn’t really get out of that commitment.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was actually nice to give them a warning before they could meet you.” Thinking about the culture clash, he grimaces. “I don’t know exactly how they’ll act around you, though. Some of them speak pretty good Basic, some speak none at all, but most probably won’t be very comfortable having you around before they get to know you.”

“That’s something we can work on, then. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

It’s pretty hard.

The second class goes much like the first. There’s food, everyone gathers around the table, and Érit leads a nice conversation on adapting to cultural differences.

And Ben is there. He introduces himself but does not join in on the discussion. Granted, much of it is in _Marlánysîl_ , but Armitage could translate if he’d show interest. But his polite smile is forced, he looks a little ill, and he’s too quiet. Even worse, his quietness spreads to the students, and the class goes just fine but not great.

—

“They’re very personable,” Armitage tries to explain to him the following week. There was a third class the day after the second, but Ben had thankfully bowed out. It’s time for the next round. “They speak human-to-human, and no rank or age gets in the way. But you can’t be quiet, or they’ll think you can’t talk.”

“Human-to-human,” Ben repeats, looking down at the ground as he walks with him to class.

He rolls his eyes. “I know, we’re all racist. The only people here who are not _fostám_ are all human, in their defense. And the Empire certainly wasn’t importing very many xenos, so those people are rather recent. So forgive me. I’ll say _person-to-person_ next time. By human, I just meant that that’s all we are, that we’re made of the same stuff.”

Ben huffs a laugh. “I don’t think you’re racist. I get what you said, and I think it’s perfectly eloquent. I just, um, need to talk more?”

“You can do that, can’t you?”

Ben is quiet for a few moments too long, and when Armitage looks over at him, he’s still staring at the ground.

“You don’t like talking to strangers?” he prompts, and Ben shrugs. He scoffs. “Then don’t let them be strangers.”

That’s what his mother taught him, and it seems to resonate in Ben. “Don’t let them be strangers.”

“Like how you did with me,” he supplies, thinking of all the times Ben tracked him down.

Ben’s feet falter, and he nearly trips over uneven ground. Shaking his head, he frowns. “You’re different.”

Armitage hums, studying him carefully when he rights himself. “Different?” That’s an interesting word choice. He narrows his eyes, trying to suss out the meaning.

“I-I mean,” Ben stutters, blinking, “I was instructed to work with you, and you didn’t talk to me, so I had to initiate contact.”

“Right, of course.” He nods, biting a lip. Fair enough. “Now, you know that food is not only for the students, right? You can have some, too, and show the students that you’re open-minded. They would love that.”

Ben nods slowly. “I can do that.”

Armitage smiles. “And I’ll try harder to include you in conversation.”

_That_ can’t be too hard, can it?

It’s not, as it turns out. Armitage smiles fondly in that lesson, and even more in the next, as Ben sits with them at the tables and opens up just a little more. It does take some prompting on his part, but Ben does a decent job of answering in full rather than supply the one- or two-word answers he had been expecting.

So maybe he’s not _weird_ , but he’s definitely got a lot of room to grow.

—

And _boy_ , does he grow.

Over the next few weeks, Ben does not come to every class, but he does come to most. He’s more active in the discussions and the lessons, speaking freely to any student, regardless of their comprehension level, and encouraging anyone who can to translate to the best of their ability.

The best thing Armitage sees is the respect. It goes both ways.

Perhaps it’s simply due to there being very little clash between them personally. Ben, being young and modest, already dismisses any _Sirs_ or _Misters_. The _Marlánysîl_ don’t ask for any in return. Ben is already an Ambassador, a diplomat, and must be trained in this sort of thing. The students were already hopeful about relations and held enough respect for the _fostáme_ by the time they agreed to join the class.

There is a clear effort on both sides, too. Ben is still clearly uncomfortable when he must address the whole class at once — and it seems they’re adding another student every day —, but he musters up and does it anyway. The students watch him much like children watch a toy, but take care to include him in conversation and ask his opinion on everything.

It’s nice. _Ben_ is nice. Even his own people are nice. He knows he shouldn’t be shocked by this revelation, but he is. In fact, he’s more impressed by the sheer civility than he is by how much the students have learned.

“It’s absolutely incredible,” Ben agrees when he expresses this sentiment just before their one-month review, “and I think it’s because of you.”

Armitage frowns. “I’m sorry. What?” He leans in over the desk they’re sitting at, clearly having misheard.

Ben gives him a broad smile and leans back in his chair. “You set a good example. I’ll make sure to tell Luke so he can write all about how much you should get paid.”

“How much I should—,” he coughs. “Ben, what are you on about? I set a good example? That’s not even, I, what?” He tilts his head.

“You heard me,” Ben insists. “You set more examples than your average person can. Let’s count.” He lifts a hand to show his fingers, counting up. “You show your people how to respect a foreigner. You _are_ also a foreigner, in a sense, and show them how foreigners can also be nice. You show foreigners how to respect your people. You—”

“Stop,” Armitage laughs. He sits back up and shakes his head, smiling down at his lap. “Those are all really bad examples, and you’ll never be taken seriously as a professional.”

“As a professional?” Ben scoffs. “No. No way. As a friend? I think I’m pretty serious stuff.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What, you don’t think I’m a good friend? I make you laugh, don’t I?”

Armitage freezes for a moment, then looks slowly up at Ben. Friend? “But you’re not my…”

When he trails off, Ben also sobers up, and his smile turns to a concerned frown. “Am I—”

“That’s not what— No.” He huffs, trying to reorder his thoughts. He’s never had a friend before. A friend? There’s Érit, of course, but she’s different. She’s family, honestly. They didn’t choose to be friends. No one has chosen to be his friend. He shakes his head. It’s all he can do. “I’ve never— I don’t— No one has ever, um…”

Ben is silent for a few more seconds before offering a small smile. “We’re friends.”

He’s never thought of Ben as a friend. More than an acquaintance, yes. A colleague, perhaps. A boss, sort of? A weird, young man, most certainly. But a friend?

“Okay,” he says, accepting the invitation. What do friends normally do? “Are you sure?”

Before Ben can answer, their interviewer walks into the office.

“Luke,” Ben calls out. “Busy day?”

Armitage turns in his chair, watching the other Ambassador, Luke, cross the small room and walk around Ben to take his seat at the holoterminal behind the desk.

“Just as busy as ever,” he replies gruffly. “Lots of stuff and things. You know how it goes.” He eyes Ben first, then Armitage. “You two been doing good work, I trust?”

Ben grins. “The best.”

Luke chuckles. “Good. Now let’s get this done and over with. Keep your answers short, if you will.” He opens up a window out of their view, and enters a few things on his own before beginning. “Start with class size. How you feel, then numbers for first day and today.”

“Class size has gone up,” Armitage answers, “better growth than expected. First day, we had fourteen students. Now, we’re at twenty-two or so. They’re all still learning together despite starting at different levels.”

Luke types it up, and Ben hums.

“They’re advancing quickly, too,” he adds. “It’s a casual setup, but we still follow a guided course. Beginners have had no trouble.”

Luke types some more. “Six datapads in stock? Just for the students?”

“That’s correct,” Armitage confirms. “We’re about three or four to a device, now. There are two separate datapads for me and Érit. And one for Ben, of course.”

Luke nods and notes it down.

“Do you want more?” Ben asks, leaning back in his chair. The rainy, blue light from the window catches his face, illuminating his bold features. There’s an unusual mark on his face, one Armitage has never seen before in any light. It runs down one side but disappears when Bean leans back in, out of the light once again.

Ben asked him a question. “Um,” he stalls, thinking for a while before settling on an answers. “No, I don’t think so.” It was a yes-or-no question, right?

Ben narrows his eyes, staring at him intently. He changes his answer.

“At least, not for now,” he amends, remembering that the question was about the number of datapads they have. “I think we’ll be fine for a while. You’ve seen them. Most don’t know how to use one yet, so it’s not a priority.”

Ben’s staring cools down, but doesn’t stop. It unsettles Armitage on some level, but not so much that he can’t handle it. He’s used to this kind of staring when he’s on base; he’s been getting it all his life for the color of his hair. He just stares back at Ben until Ben turns to Luke.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“That’s actually it from you two,” Luke mumbles, and Ben nods.

“Great. Let’s get out of here and go home. I’m sick to death of all this rain we’ve been getting these past two months. Is it just me, or is it heavier than when we got here? I thought I was acclimating.”

Armitage chuckles. “Beginning of summer,” he reminds Ben. “We got that hint of sunshine, so this is just a rainy season. You’ll learn the patterns eventually.”

Ben grumbles and nods. “Alright. Will it be over soon, at least?”

He shrugs. “Maybe another month?”

“Oh, for goodness sake.”

Short review finished, they gather their stuff and head downstairs, making for the front door. 

Armitage considers stopping Ben for a moment to ask about that _friend_ thing, but something else nags him. That mark on his face. Was that real? He’s seen his face plenty, and he’s never seen such a thing. A trick of the light, perhaps. Or just his mind going into overdrive after the _friend_ statement. Perhaps it’s best not to ask about either. It’s raining too heavily to be polite.

As he pulls his hood over his head to venture out, the door to the consulate busts open before, and a large, lumbering man spills in. Water drips in splashes all over the floor as he shoulders past the three of them to speak with the clerk.

“Hey,” Ben shouts, but the man doesn’t pay him any mind, instead only speaking in a slightly too loud voice to the woman at the front desk.

“We have to put out a hazmat advisory right now,” he pants, reading something from his little handheld holo. “Five miles on land in all directions from Scaparus Port, and two-hundred miles out into the ocean in all directions from Scaparus Port. Totally prohibited, and the area might grow — I don’t know yet. We sent your office a message, but didn’t get a confirmation from you, and no one has answered our calls, so I came up _all the way_ down here—”

“W-what?” the clerk stutters. “Go back. What happened, sir?”

Armitage is wondering the same thing. Hazmat? And for such a great distance?

“The rain,” the man says, drawing out the words with emphasis. “When the dam’s floodgate opened this morning, it washed out a chemical feedstock facility just north of the Village, up outside south Scaparus. It was a dumb place to put one, and they were manufacturing dangerous chemicals to boot, so now we’re all paying for it. That advisory has to be put out as soon as possible. We’re using the emergency alert system, but there’s got to be a full memo, too. No one can go in or near the dam, that plant, the whole floodplain, watershed, or the ocean or any of it until we’ve tracked the spread of whatever leaked.”

The words ring in Armitage’s ears.

— 

Perfluorooctanoic acid.

Armitage can’t spell that. He can’t even pronounce it. He has no idea what’s in it, where it comes from, how it’s made. He’s only heard the words used by solemn faces to describe it.

Deadly. Biopersistent. Carcinogenic. An absolute nightmare. Outlawed.

—

Outside the walls of the base, from the southern gate to the forest, the western horizon has changed. Where he could previously have looked out and seen the edge of the earth, a holy place that bridges to Marlá, he sees new and ugly construction stretching endlessly in either direction.

Big, white suits, presumably with people inside, have started blocking off the coast with miles of tape, barricades, and vehicles. He has no idea how far they’ll go. What had that man said yesterday? Two hundred miles? It’s hard to believe that it’s all lined up just to contain the spreading of some chemical he’s never heard of, but he understands the vastness of the ocean as well as anyone else.

But just as the ocean is full of water, yesterday had been full of bad answers.

When he asked how long it would take to recover from the accident, no one could give him a straight answer. He got shrug after shrug mixed with countless frowns until Ben finally walked him into an empty office and sat him down. 

His voice was calm. His eyes were respectfully averted. His words were horrendous.

Armitage will not forget hearing them.

_It takes at least a hundred generations to see this stuff begin to disappear_ , his brain reminds him every minute. _Even long after we die, and our children die, and our children’s children die, that chemical will stay in our graves longer than we will._

It would be nice if he could stop thinking.

He doesn’t want to worry about dead sailors, dead fish, salt shortages, food shortages, mass starvation, riots and killings, land migration, and starships to other worlds.

Neither does Ben, apparently. He balked and ended the conversation as soon as Armitage’s eyes started burning with tears of anger. They both left swiftly.

Armitage went home and did not sleep. He’s not sure if he ate.

After walking past the figures in white and their barriers on the coast, he’s now back at the shop for work.

He works. He’s not sure it’s all done right, but he thinks he saw or maybe heard everything running.

He leaves the shop.

It feels like half a minute has gone by since he set foot on the concrete this morning. Now he’s already walking back into the classroom.

He’s pushed into a chair. Érit frowns at him.

Their ocean and all its salt, its life, the people out there — his brain won’t shut up. It races on in a mumble, loud but half-unintelligible.

Érit is talking to the class, saying something about manufacturing, chemicals, industry. He’s not already asleep, and his brain is too active for him to fall asleep at this table now, but Érit is formless. Her voice is not saying words, and her face is barely there.

He has to squint, tilt his head down and look up from under his brow, focus through his thoughts, focus, focus, _focus_.

“Everything is made of chemicals,” she says.

He blinks hard, but he can barely see her.

“Some chemicals are healthy, and some aren’t. Some are useful to us, and some are useless.”

He can stop listening now. His eyes won’t close. The blur is giving him a headache.

“We have to stay away from that area for now. It’s for our safety.”

He has to stop listening.

“But what about the sailors that are already out there? How will they stay safe?” That’s not Érit’s voice.

“I don’t know.” That _is_ Érit’s voice. It’s shaky.

He looks at her again, and it’s easy this time, but he regrets doing so. Her eyes are wide, frightened, terrified, hopeless. This isn’t what he wants to see.

She looks back at him with tears in her eyes. “Everything will work out in the end, though. It always does, right?”

Doubtful.

He swallows, throat dry, and his brain switches gears. “There are lots of ships on base,” he offers, nodding in encouragement. “Airships, ones that can go out and bring everyone back.” He blinks his eyes open wider and looks out at the class.

They’re staring at him much the same way Érit is.

He coughs to get some air through. “They just need a little bit of time, is all.”

A mumble rolls about the room, but one woman shakes her head.

“What will we do for food?” she argues, voice terse. “If we can’t eat fish, what will we eat? It’s springtime, almost summer. My capras are kidding right now.”

The rest of the room starts to rile up, so Armitage stands with Érit. “We have an allowance from the New Republic for food,” he says over the chatter. “With their help, everyone will still be fed.”

He had been hoping that something like that wouldn’t be used, but they haven’t really got a choice now — this is the emergency he had been inclined to save it for.

“And Kjára?” someone else asks. “How will we repent without Marlá?”

“Send your prayers by river,” another answers for him. “All rivers run to Marlá.” 

Others nod in solemn agreement, talking amongst themselves.

Armitage sighs wearily. He will need to speak to Ben about the food and the men out at sea. Ben…

Ben is not here. Did he say he wouldn’t be? He half-wonders where all the time between yesterday and today has gone, but doesn’t have the energy to finish the thought. Everything is happening with or without him, besides.

He barely notices when the room empties. 

—

“ _Kjára_ ,” Armitage whispers, dipping his hands into the stream and bringing the water to his face. It runs down his chin, neck, and chest, dripping back into the flowing creek in near-inaudible splashes.

He does it again. “ _Kjára_.”

The sun is coming up. The sky is getting lighter on the other side of the hills.

He pulls more water up, running his hands up into his hair. “ _Kjára_.”

Part of this feels a little like _Marlá_ herself orchestrated this fiasco, as if the dam accident had been her way of saying ‘no, you are no child of mine.’ Or that _Ámoset_ had sent this curse, had finally stayed his pity and ended his peaceful reign, sending the _Marlánysîl_ to their end.

He’s inclined to believe the further; something inside him is screaming about the evils of the _fostáme_ , about his father, the monster. Yet every conscious part of him knows that he is not the only one being turned away from her. And the quieter, more rational part of him knows that this is not the end. They are not helpless.

He dips his hands back down and runs more water over his face, praying for absolution. “ _Kjára_.”

The taste of saltless water is strange in such a context. He does not feel reborn, nor does he feel purified. He just feels wet and cold. It’s difficult to put the strangeness into words — not that he needs to. Once the sun is fully risen, he will maintain his silence for three days and repent.

It’s not easy.

Whatever had held him under in that first day after the accident has worn off. Armitage is too conscious for comfort, feeling well and truly alone for the first time in a long time. The silence is stifling and jarring without the walk down to the seashore and the company of his kin, nor the company of his _other_ kin in this workless period. He sees his mother only around their usual dinnertime; he does not know where she goes during the day. His grandmother keeps to herself, no longer speaking to him regardless of what day it is. He can’t vent his frustrations to anyone or take solace in their company.

All he can do is pray. He can send his intentions downstream during the day, then panic alone at night. He can wait for the days to slowly turn until he can go back to base to hear the latest news about the accident. He doesn’t know if the sailors are being rescued, if there are tons of fish washing up dead, if anyone at the consulate has even thought about placing an order to feed the thousands that might starve without _Marlá’s_ bounty.

He does not stay awake to celebrate sundown on the third day. He sleeps through it, albeit fitfully, eager to go in early the next morning as soon as the gate is open. His bed is cold before sunrise, and he’s out the door before the rest of the house wakes, taking his time in the forest alone until curfew ends and he can be waved through the gate.

Except that he’s not waved through.

“What?” he asks when the guard gestures to the humming scanner. “You never use that thing. Why now?”

“Orders,” the guard replies with a shrug. “With that accident a few days ago, we can’t be too sure who’ll want to take justice into their own hands. Step through it, please.”

Armitage eyes the thing. He’s stepped through it a thousand times, of course, but it hasn’t been turned on for him in years. It’s essentially just a big extra doorway, and it can’t hurt him, but this idea that he could be dangerous kind of stings. He huffs and walks through, pausing on the other side and waiting for the door out of the guard house to open.

After a long second, it buzzes, and he wastes no time in hurrying to the consulate.

When he gets there, he sits on the steps and waits, resting his elbows on his knees.

They can’t be too sure who will take justice into their own hands? They can’t be too sure he won’t bomb the place? It makes sense enough to be careful, but what do they think the world is coming to? The _Marlánysîl_ have never attacked anyone, even throughout all the awful things that have been done to them. How far will this increase in security go?

_Perhaps they’re anticipating something worse_ , his inner voice nags. _The initial accident will be nothing compared to its consequences, things that will drive people to the brink of their humanity._

He brings his hands up to his head, hissing at himself. “Stop.”

_You need to prepare for the worst — starvation, illness, exodus, violence. If nothing is done, these things will happen. The heightened security starts with you, with the consulate, not with the guards. Stop it before it forms._

“You’re here early.”

Armitage jumps, lifting his head from his hands. _Do something._

Ben is standing over him, brows drawn together over a tight smile. “Do you, um,” he starts, gesturing to the door at the top of the steps. “Do you want to come inside?”

_You have to do something._

Armitage scrambles up to his feet, and the worries in his mind spill out to assault Ben with question after question, fired in rapid succession. “Food, have you filed for special aid for food? Do you know if the fishers are all right? And the salters? The traders? Will we be able to save them? Or has something happened to them already? Have you looked for them? Found them? Are they refusing to get on your ships? They’re so stubborn, they hate new things, and it’s stupid. Will we—”

Ben grabs him by the shoulders with heavy hands. “Hey, calm down.”

_No_. Armitage shakes his head. He can’t calm down right now. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t breathe.

“Look at me,” Ben commands, and Armitage’s eyes lock onto his. “Stop thinking and just breathe.”

Heavy, wet air spills into his lungs and rushes back out with a cough. He gags on it, coughs some more. _Don’t get sick on Ben’s shoes._ Swallowing through it, he lifts his chin up and gasps in a smaller breath, holding it for a few seconds before settling back into a more natural rhythm.

“Do you want to go inside now?” Ben asks once he’s gotten his breathing back under control, watching him warily.

He looks over at the brick, then up at the roof. Inside. He nods slowly.

“Okay, come on.” Ben drags him up the steps by the elbow and unlocks the door. Once inside the dark building, he sits him down on the staircase. The lights stay off, and every sound — the stairs, the ventilation, Ben’s voice — is louder in the dark. “Tell me what you need.”

_To fix this._ He closes his eyes, willing his thoughts to order themselves properly. _The first priority…_

_The men out at sea._

“There are sailors out there,” he chokes, throat still tight. “Please tell me you’ve looked for them.”

“Of course, yes.”

He opens his eyes and looks at up Ben, eager for more information. “Are they okay?”

Armitage can barely see it, but his stomach threatens to fall out when Ben grimaces. “They’re not in immediate danger.”

He leans forward and wraps his arms around his middle, listening carefully as Ben edges around the subject.

“The thing about this stuff is that it doesn’t act very quickly unless you come into direct contact with a heavy concentration of it. Out in the ocean, it’s dissolved and diluted but can still be absorbed and accumulate in the body. The doctors have to do blood tests to gauge a prognosis.”

“You said it’s deadly,” he reminds Ben.

“It is.” Ben frowns. “It kills very slowly, over years. The hospital will know how much they’ve been exposed to once they’re brought in and checked out.”

He blinks slowly, processing what was just said. “They’re still out there?”

“The rescue team has been preparing a ship to go out there and come back. PFOA can’t exactly be scrubbed clean off the ship. I think they’re on for tomorrow morning.”

“It’s been _five days_ already,” he hisses, unbelieving. “You’ve left them out there for _five days_ , and the _ship_ is what’s being treated?”

“We have to protect everyone here, too, Armitage. Remember — once that stuff gets in your body, it’s staying there for years in the best of cases. We’re already dealing with people _on base_ who have been exposed, officers and their families living up closest to the accident. We can’t risk more exposure.”

Armitage shuts his eyes again. He doesn’t want to hear it, any of it, and he doesn’t want to ask his next question. “What about—” He bites his lip hard.

_It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine. It won’t be fine._

“What about food?” he asks quietly. “When will the ocean be safe again, and what can we do in the meantime? Almost all of our food comes from the ocean this time of year.”

Ben sighs audibly. “We’re pre-approved for four-hundred grand in food assistance, which will last about a month at one meal per person per day. But, Armitage,” he pauses. His tone doesn’t sound like anything good will come out of his mouth.

He keeps his eyes shut, keeps biting down on his lip, clenches his fists. _Don’t say it, don’t say it…_

“We’ll need to apply for an extension and for an agriculture infrastructure grant.”

Armitage buries his face in his hands, taking care to breathe deeply through Ben’s words. He already knows what he’s going to say next.

“That stuff will only spread across the entirety of Arkanis. The oceans are a total loss. I don’t think anyone will be going out into—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He doesn’t.

Armitage takes in another careful breath, and it must be dusty in the consulate because the air burns his lungs and his eyes when they open. He exhales slowly, removing his hands from his face to push his hair back over his shoulders. Black dots strobe in his blurred vision.

“Whenever you know,” he says, voice shaking like his fingers and his racing thoughts, “just tell me when the holocall with the G.A.C. will happen.”

“Okay,” Ben promises.

“And we—,” he gasps, “we need to figure out how to distribute the food, and how—”

“Stop.”

“—to make sure—”

“Armitage, stop,” Ben commands, and he snaps up straight, fists falling to his sides. “This is not your job. You can relax.”

“This is my _life_ and the lives of thousands of people. I can’t _relax_ right now.”

“Well, you need to,” Ben insists. “Panicking has never solved a problem before. And mass panic is even worse, so I don’t want _anyone_ to see you upset like this, okay? Everything is going to be all right.”

Armitage looks up into his eyes, and as if a warm blanket of calmness is being thrown over his shoulders, the panic starts to melt away. He nods.

“Everything is going to be all right,” he echoes.

Ben nods vigorously, determined. “It’s my job to help you through this, okay? And I will. I promise.”

—

Armitage still wanders into little bouts of panic for a minute or so various times throughout the morning, but it recedes again when Ben walks into the shop to inform him of the hearing for the aid extension.

It had been scheduled very quickly, and their liaison was open that afternoon. He would need to miss that day’s lesson, but Érit would be fine by herself for one day. Or for a second day, rather. He’ll have to remember to make it up to her.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Ben tells him, holding the consulate door open for him.

Armitage walks in and leads the way up the stairs. “It makes me feel better,” he mutters over his shoulder, “knowing that I can argue with someone if they’re wrong. Besides, you came all the way to the shop to tell me about it, and if that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is.”

Ben stops with him at the top of the stairs and smiles. “I just figured you’d want to know about it. And it’s generally considered rude to text people about such serious things that govern their lives.”

“Thank you,” Armitage mumbles. It is certainly kind of Ben to involve him in all of this. He’s not exactly the most important or impactful person around. Maybe he seems like it for now, but once the idea of a council is bounced around more, he knows he won’t be a part of it. He may be _Marlánysîl_ , but he doesn’t belong to them anymore.

They walk together into the conference room to see Secretary K’Mondha already seated at the table with the holopad turned on. She looks at them with pursed lips and an upturned nose.

“I've got another call in ten, and this call starts in three minutes,” she sneers. “Do you need me?”

Ben shakes his head. “No, you can go.”

She rises instantly and gets halfway out the door before turning back over her shoulder. "By the way, dear," she sniffs in Armitage's direction. "I'm sorry about that accident. It's a shame that it had to happen just when things seemed to be in your favor." Before Armitage can do so much as smile politely, she's gone.

He huffs. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this,” he prefaces, closing the door softly, “but she’s truly a remnant of Ambassadors past. But back then, she wasn’t worse than anyone else, so I couldn’t hate her.”

Ben nods, humming in understanding. “But you can now?” he finishes with a smirk, and Armitage nods. “I barely know her. She doesn’t care about anything; she only got the job because she knows the right people.”

“She’s been here for six years,” he tells Ben conspiratorially, pulling out two chairs for them to sit. “All she does is tell us how cute we are and not to touch anything or go anywhere. Takes way too many vacations. And then, and this is just personal, she only uses the word ‘Arkani’ to describe us, despite having been told countless times that we are _Marlánysîl_.”

Ben hums curiously. “What do you call the planet, then?” he asks.

“ _Arkténys_ ,” he pronounces carefully, “or _Saír_ , if you’re referring specifically to the land — it’s complicated. But anyway, it’s like your word, but the problem is that it refers to what’s essentially a giant arkto — or a bunch of arktos, depending on who you ask — and not to us, the people.”

“So she’s calling you an arkto every time she says that?”

“She’s calling us beast-children, actually,” he corrects, and Ben cringes.

The ringing holopad ends their conversation there.

—

All in all, the meeting goes well. Armitage was able to explain to the G.A.C. that the alternatives for food were too sparse to sustain the population for any amount of time during this emergency. They already have the funds for one month, so they will be able to hold out until a plan is drafted by an agri-planner. It will likely involve artificial lakes and electrical infrastructure, so that adds time to both planning and implementation, but they’re looking at no more than two years for the whole thing, provided everything runs smoothly.

It could be a lot worse, Armitage figures. At least they are getting any help at all. He thanks Ben again for bringing him in on the meeting, but Ben insists on thanking _him_.

“You didn’t have to come, but you helped a lot with information I wouldn’t have known off-hand. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, let me know.” He looks very sincere, but Armitage didn’t think it was that big a deal.

He raises his brow at the offer. “Actually, there is.” Ben nods for him to go on, and he smirks. “You know our class size is rather large. I know you’re rather busy, but if you have time, you should make good on your initial proposal and stop by more often to teach some things.”

Ben laughs. “I don’t know that I’d make a very good teacher, but I guess I can come by tomorrow with some new materials.”

Armitage nods eagerly. “That’s what I said, remember? Before you pulled that bait-and-switch. But really, you have a lot you can teach. Your increased presence would also promote that favorable image of the New Republic that we’ve been trying so hard to instill. It’s comforting to have you around.” Why did he say that? He bites his tongue briefly. “For everyone, you know, because you, um, you’re so well-informed and in good control of affairs. You can also learn more about us in return, so it would be good for you.”

“Those are all very good points,” Ben agrees, smiling begrudgingly. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then. I’ll walk you out.”

In a custom he’s not quite familiar with, Ben gets up from his chair and leads him downstairs, and Armitage wonders who he learned that from. Certainly not anyone else here on base, he’s sure. It’s weird, but nice.

“Bye, Ben,” he says as he heads out the door. “Thank you again.”

“Bye, Armitage. See you.”

He turns back to look at Ben. “Yeah, see you.”

—

The next afternoon is a relatively nice one. It’s warmer than usual, not raining but gently misting in some places. A fog settles over the base for the day and doesn’t leave before Armitage does.

He’s feeling a thousand times better already. Of course, nothing much has changed in the past few days, but knowing that everything _will_ be taken care of allows him to breathe a little easier, eat a little more, and focus harder on his work. Before there was a plan in place, his work passed him by quickly. Now he passes through it quickly, and the shift wraps up without a hitch.

He packs up his things once he’s signed off and heads out the shop door, running almost directly into a wall of Ben. It gives him a start, and he brings a hand to the icy pain in his chest.

“Your timing is impeccable,” he breathes, “but must you startle me like that?” He shrugs his bag up and sidesteps him, beginning the walk to the southern gate.

Ben takes a spot right by his side and shrugs nonchalantly. “Some people just have really good luck with timing. I, personally, am constantly running late, but I can make up for it with speed and still keep the timing. At least I’m always aware of it passing.”

Armitage crooks a brow. “Including the times I finish ahead of schedule? Like today?” he asks skeptically.

“I just had a feeling, you know?”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t know. I have got a good sense of time, though. We don’t have clocks off-base. We’re just familiar with the day, the way it feels, sounds, smells.”

“Smells,” Ben repeats.

He rolls his eyes. “Dawn smells very different to any other part of the day; even a capra knows that, and they can’t smell. Those clocks that you keep everywhere make you lazy. That’s why you and almost everyone else here are always late, especially when you’re constantly wasting time to check the clock to see how much time you have left to waste instead of just getting ready.”

Ben mutters something about “being attacked,” but doesn’t say anything more. They soon clear the base and walk the open stretch of road in silence. As they get closer to the woods, the mist starts to clear enough that they can see farther through it, but it’s too dark under the tree cover for it to make much difference.

Armitage glances over at Ben and the bag on his shoulder. He’s never seen him with a bag like that before. He wears such large robes, he always figured that he probably just stuffs his personal effects in those. But this bag is not small, not large, just a bag he’s never seen before.

“What’s in there?” he inquires, nodding at the bag when Ben gives a questioning look.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He gives it a second, closer look. There’s definitely a weight in the canvas, swaying as Ben walks. “There’s nothing in there, you say? It looks heavy.”

Ben gives him a flat look, lips pursed. “Nothing important. You’ll see when we get to class.”

He hums thoughtfully. “If it’s going to be shown in class, why can’t I just see it now? Unless, of course, it’s something _personal_.”

Ben’s cheeks turn pink, and he huffs. “It’s nothing like that,” he claims. “It’s just something different.” He finally looks back at Armitage. “Though, maybe it’s not like that for you guys. But it is like that where I’m from, so I’m sorry if I’m being a little defensive about it. But still — you’ll get to see it when we get to the classroom.”

Armitage lets it rest at that, and they walk the rest of the way in peace. When they arrive, the room is empty save for Érit. Her hair is only half braided. She must be too tired to bother. 

“Good afternoon,” she greets. “It’s nice to finally see you again, Ben. How are you?” She stands from her seat to pull out chairs.

“I’m doing well,” Ben says. “How are you?”

She sighs deeply as they sit, eyes pinched. “As well as I can be, I suppose. Armitage tells me that the men out there are being rescued?”

Armitage looks over at Ben, who nods slowly.

“Yes, there’s ongoing effort to get everyone back as quickly as possible. They have to make multiple trips, of course.” He pauses, and a crease settles between his brows. “I heard there are hundreds out there right now? Is that right? It sounds like a lot.”

“That sounds about right, yes,” Érit confirms. “Are they all okay?”

“We think so.” Ben nods again. “But they’re going to be kept in the hospital’s care until we know exactly how they’re affected. And there are a lot of them, of course, so it may take a while to get through everyone.”

The door behind them opens, and the first few students walk in together.

Érit greets them all with an apologetic smile. “No food today. I’m sorry.”

Armitage frowns, looking out at the empty tabletops. The markets must not be willing to sell her any extra food; they’re likely anticipating the shortage already. Of course.

The students shrug it off, understanding, and take their seats. It doesn’t take long for the rest to file in, and then Érit begins the class with the recitation of the Aurebesh.

Armitage listens along to the Basic letters and phrases, then to her simple history statements, but notices that the class is distracted. With the accident and its repercussions, he knows there’s much to think about, but he didn’t think Ben would be the subject.

Every minute or so, without fail, someone glances over at Ben. He was absent from the last two classes, but that’s no reason to stare. He’s watching Érit just as everyone else is, not causing any fuss, not even making a peep. Maybe it’s that he has all the answers. Maybe it’s his power. Maybe his absurdly broad shoulders are especially enormous today. Those are reasons for the students to stare.

But Armitage finds himself looking over at Ben a lot, too. It’s that bag.

It’s likely quite innocuous, but the way Ben got so defensive about it has him hooked. What would it be that Ben thinks is so embarrassing to his compatriots, but possibly not to the _Marlánysîl_ students? He has a couple ideas, but he can’t simply steal the bag to see for himself. If it’s to do with what he’s teaching, then it will be revealed. He waits.

As the class reviews words previously learned — _droid, dinner, diagram, democracy —_ , Ben reaches into the bag and pulls something out.

A paper book, like the one at the front desk of the consulate but much larger.

_Why does Ben need one of those?_ he wonders.

And then Ben takes out more items — a few styluses, a small poster, a ruler. While everyone focuses on Érit’s recitation of the vocabulary, Ben draws some parallel lines on the first few pages of the book. And then…

_He’s writing by hand_ , Armitage realizes. He gets up and walks over to the other side of the table where Ben is focusing on his paper, watching him make letters using the stylus.

“What does that say?” he wonders aloud. He can recognize some of the letters, but can’t fill in enough of the blanks to sound it out. The first letter is Aurek — he knows that for certain. He sees an Esk, then a Grek further along. Ben writes a few more letters, and the word is soon far too long for him to even begin to decipher.

“It’s not a word,” Ben mutters. “It’s the Aurebesh.”

“Oh. Right.” He frowns. Now he feels really stupid for being so fascinated.

Ben stops his writing and turns to peer over his shoulder at Armitage. He smiles a little; it’s a friendly one. “Sit down. I’ll show you.”

Armitage drops into the seat next to him and watches him go through it again, reading the letters aloud for him to follow along. They all still look mostly the same to him, but he appreciates it.

“That’s very impressive,” he tells Ben quietly, “writing the letters out like that. All thirty-four of them. You have very fine control over the stylus. I can really only do my name, and it’s not very neat.” He could never hope to do anything like Ben does.

Ben shrugs. “My mom thought it was important for me to learn.” He huffs a laugh. “She actually said, ‘what if one day you go to a place where there’s no electricity and you need to write something down?’ Well, here I am.”

Armitage smiles. “Mothers are rarely wrong. Do you think everyone can learn the letters well enough to draw all of them like that? Without a reference?”

A nearby student, Médhys, pipes up. “ _Ai, roména sjim mu sáramet múgom. Roména o it naldés ablûrer sjémmel ablûr Republicánet désa tairómmer Ámoset ýäm._ ”

Armitage starts at the words, repulsed. Why would anyone say such a thing? Even Médhys, as troublesome as he can be, should know better. He’s grateful Ben can’t understand what was just said, though when he looks at Ben’s face, he appears to have recognized the tone for what it is.

“You can leave, now. _Víme ys samaím’_ ,” Armitage tells Médhys, who stands and leaves with no more than a scowl. He doesn’t even slam the door.

“That was resolved quickly,” Ben observes, sounding shocked. “How did you get someone to do as they’re told that fast?”

Armitage shrugs dismissively. “Probably because he knows who my family is. Now, let’s get back to class.”

The rest of class goes remarkably smoothly. Érit reads to them about the dramatic climax of the Empire’s coup d’etat and how they slaughtered an ancient religious order of sworn protectors.

Ben seems especially knowledgeable on this subject and answers questions from the curious students — things like, _‘how did the Empire draw power in the first place?’_ and _‘how did the people not know?’_ and _‘were the Jedi real?’_. He still isn’t very well-spoken on the fly, though, and the class ends before he can answer everything properly.

“I certainly hope you’ll keep teaching everyday,” Armitage tells Ben once everyone else has left. “We could stand to have you around more regularly. You lend a fair amount of hope and structure, which we desperately need now. And especially with your advanced writing skills…”

“My writing skills really aren’t anything special,” Ben says, putting his things back in his bag. “That said, I think I will come everyday to be more involved. Or at least most days.”

“Oh, good.” He’s relieved, if just a bit stung at Ben’s downplay of writing. “Thank you.”

“It’s no burden.” Ben looks so earnest, it’s almost unbelievable. “I swear, it isn’t. I’m happy to help.”

Armitage smiles briefly. “Now, about that student who was asked to leave,” he starts, sobering up, “what he said was problematic, to say the least.”

“Médhys? I could tell.” His expression is dark, and he shoulders his bag, ready to leave.

Armitage backs out the door and leads Ben down the path from his home, taking the time to talk alone. “He said, rather more explicitly than I will, that he would like all of you on base to know that he wants you to die.” He swallows once. “That’s why I asked him to leave the class.”

Ben is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his expression is muted. “Has he made any other threats before?”

Armitage shakes his head.

“How old is he?”

“Perhaps fifteen or so,” Armitage guesses with a shrug. “He’s still young.”

“He’s old enough to make good on his threats, is what he is,” Ben surmises. “We should tell the MPs.”

He stills, coming to a dead stop. The gate guards and their scanner come to mind. Security’s already tight. They’re on the ropes. _Consequences. Conflict. Violence. They need help. They’re getting help. It won’t last._

Ben takes a few steps past him before noticing that they aren’t side-by-side anymore. He stops and looks back.

Armitage gulps. His heart feels...not right. He can barely hear himself when he speaks, only the echo of his voice in the open air, like he’s someone else listening from outside his body. “You want to turn him in to the police?”

Ben nods in earnest. “Of course.”

“He’s fifteen,” he reminds him. “And that was an expression of his opinion, not a threat. Hatred is bad, but it’s not a crime.”

“Hatred leads to crime.” Ben turns around fully and gives him what’s probably a hard look — he can’t see it well enough to tell. “There are lots of ways to express an opinion. What do you think would happen if he were to kill someone? If someone on base were to be murdered?”

A scoff rips out of his throat, and his arms cross themselves over his chest. “No one would—”

“You don’t even have any rights,” Ben tells him, voice raised. “You know what that means? You don’t get a fair and speedy trial. You aren’t presumed innocent. You don’t get an impartial judge or jury. You would have _everything_ taken from you until enough officers decide they have time for a court martial. Because this place, Arkanis Base, is not just some nation in the New Republic; this is Command. What happens here is their business, the Senate’s business, and no one else’s. And all of that doesn’t just go for a murderer — it goes for _all_ of you, including you, because none of you are citizens.”

When he’s finished with his little speech, Armitage nods in agreement.

“I know,” he grits. “That’s why you can’t tell the MPs what he said. There would be unfair repercussions for us all.”

Ben stares at him for a while, face like stone.

“If we were citizens, if we could be treated the same as any of you, then I wouldn’t object to this.” He raises his chin. “But we aren’t, and so I do. Very strongly. Please let _us_ correct his behavior before you go running off and calling us all liars and murderers and terrorists. Trust us. Trust _me_. Aren’t we friends?”

Ben backs off at that word, taking a step back and nodding slowly. “Okay. You know better than I do.” He turns and continues down the road, and Armitage follows him. Something will need to be done about that kid, but the MPs are not the ones to go to.

“We should really get started on organizing that council sooner rather than later,” Armitage says after a minute.

Ben doesn’t respond.

“They can help with the logistics of the food rations and all that. And I believe it can instill a respect for authority.”

“I thought you don’t like authority,” Ben says calmly.

It’s true. “I don’t like false authority. I don’t like forced authority, either. But this relationship between the _Marlánysîl_ and the Republic — it’s an authoritative one whether I like it or not. You yourself just reiterated that we don’t have any rights in your eyes. If using our own authority in conjunction with yours is the only way to survive, then that’s what we’re doing. I don’t care what people think they want or how they think they’ll get it. If we want peace, real peace, then we have to do more.”

It’s quiet for a while longer while they walk. When they reach the turnoff that connects to the tree millhouse, Ben stops.

“You know,” he says, pausing and taking a close look at Armitage. “You’ve been referring to yourself as _Marlánysîl_ more often than not lately.”

He shrugs. “All the time I spend with you, I suppose.”

“Me? Why me?”

Armitage thinks for a second. “You don’t question who I am. I feel more _Marlánysîl_ with you than I do with,” he tosses a gesture back behind them, toward town, then another toward base, “ _any_ of them, really. You don’t place boundaries on it, or on any part of my heritage, and you let me speak with you the _Marlánysîl_ way — no sirs or ma’ams or deference. I can be me, and you don’t tell me to stop. It’s nice.”

Ben hums thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything more. He heads off back to base, and Armitage starts his walk back home alone. Thinking of one more thing to add, he turns around, but Ben is already lost around the curve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yowza.
> 
> I'm trying to stop dissociating long enough to get back on a sort of daily editing schedule to allow for a weekly+ posting schedule, but uhhhhh...???? We'll see.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](https://nymeriaking.tumblr.com/) (which gets checked), a [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking) (which I am currently on/off depending on my rather hilariously precarious mental state), and a [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/nymeriaking) (which does not really get used at all). Y'all are all welcome to talk to me on these platforms.


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